


The Fates We Weave

by paranoid_fridge



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dimension Travel, Dragons, Gen, HRBB14, M/M, Some Romance, different incarnations of the same person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-01 07:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2764787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoid_fridge/pseuds/paranoid_fridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years after the Battle of the Five Armies, Bilbo is busy helping Erebor recover. He is popular with dwarves and men, his relationship with Thorin developing slowly and all is well until one day another dragon descends.One moment Bilbo stands amid smoke and rubble, Thorin motionless on the ground. The next he is somewhere completely different and a stranger holds out a hand and offers a chance to save them all: save Thorin, save Erebor, stop the second dragon from coming.</p>
<p>In return he must only help the stranger gather the pieces of a powerful stone strewn across many worlds. If not, the stranger tells him, their enemies may collect them first. And if they do, not only Thorin and Erebor, but Bilbo’s entire world will be lost. </p>
<p>Written for <a href="http://shamingcows.tumblr.com/">shamingcows</a>'s <a href="http://shamingcows.tumblr.com/post/94023679973/shamingcows-jumperverse-for-hrbb-the-short/">art prompt </a> for the <a href="http://hobbitreversebang.tumblr.com/">Hobbit Reverse Big Bang 2014</a>.  And more <a href="http://shamingcows.tumblr.com/post/105439553553/and-id-choose-you-in-a-hundred-lifetimes-in-a">wonderful artwork</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The day the dragon came

**Author's Note:**

> (I've tried to stick to the artpomrpt, but once this thing is posted in its entirety, you decide if it did the prompt justice.) ;)

A warm breeze ruffles Bilbo’s hair as he studies the wares before him. Even after four years in Erebor, he still has difficulties telling jade from emerald and therefore hesitates to address the vendor who observes him with an eagle’s eye.

But the small jewel-studded dagger he looks at appears exotic enough to be worth an investment. The anniversary of Thorin’s coronation approaches and Bilbo has made a private tradition of giving him a gift on the occasion. So far the list has included itching powder (make those sycophantic well-wisher and droning council members uncomfortable), an imported drink said to increase the drinker’s wakefulness (Thorin had managed well-enough, but the effects on Kili had proved terrifying) and Bilbo thinks Thorin may like the dagger.

It’s not quite as cheeky a gift as his choices up to now have been. And among dwarves, he knows, it could very well be considered a courting gift. But there’s something growing between them, something Bilbo hesitates to yet name, considering what they have put each other through.

But perhaps in times of peace and plenty whatever is developing may have a chance.

The head of his entourage interrupts his wandering thoughts by clearing his throat. “Master Baggins,” Bergar says, “I believe we should start our return.”

Bilbo blinks and straightens with a light flush on his cheeks. “Truly? Is it already so late?”

The sun still warms his exposed skin, and the shadows have only started lengthening. But just as the winters are harsher up here, days in summer seem to last twice as long as they did in the Shire.

Bergar inclines his head. “Unless you wish to dine elsewhere.”

“No, no”, Bilbo shakes his head with a smile. Thorin expects him back, and they see little enough of each other. Either Thorin is caught up with matters of state or Bilbo is called on to resolve some conflict in Erebor’s foreign relations. He’d never expected his long experience of dealing with restive relatives would have qualified him for handling the diplomatic relations of a dwarven kingdom, but after having witnessed Thorin’s approach to diplomacy he feels fairly well-equipped.

With one last look at the wares, Bilbo decides the dagger appears unusual enough to appeal and when the vendor quotes what is probably an outrageous price, Bilbo –who theoretically has unlimited access to Erebor’s treasury – smiles and says, “I’ll take it for half of that.”

The man splutters, casts an eye on Bilbo’s guard and does not insist. Sometimes Bilbo almost misses the pig-headed vendors of the Shire stubbornly insisting on their inflated prices. Part of it stemmed from them knowing Bilbo wasn’t lacking in funds. In Dale and Erebor half of the merchants barely dare to charge him at all. And if a traveling vendor attempts to, Bilbo’s haggling skills are aptly backed by the escort Thorin insists on.

When they finally turn their ponies back toward Erebor the sun has just started its descent. Bilbo tilts his head up, gazes out at the slopes of the Lonely Mountain. The cobble-stoned street remains a work in progress, and Bilbo knows there are plans for grand statues to be erected alongside it. His eyes look for the small patches of green. Now that Smaug’s evil no longer poisons the ground, plants and animals are returning. Already birdsongs fill the air during the warm summer mornings, and the first flowers have blossomed in Dale.

Perhaps one day, Bilbo thinks, summers here will be full of color, too. Erebor’s winter may be too harsh for the Shire’s fragile flora, but he knows of the woods that used to cover the Lonely Mountain’s slopes, knows flowers and bushes that will survive ice and snow. Maybe now that the more pressing reconstructions have been completed he can ask the traveling merchants for flower seeds.

With the sun on his face he can envision green trees framing the stone road leading up to Erebor’s grand entrance. Perhaps golden field surrounding Dale – rye and wheat will last through the winters. Sheep and cattle will lessen their dependency on distant markets, and Bilbo smiles to himself.

The despair and grief of the quest now feel like a distant nightmare. Faint echoes linger – but as the mountain heals Bilbo’s heart does follow.

***

They have almost reached the entrance when a shadow abruptly covers the sun. It’s a cloudless day – Bilbo turns his head, but before he can voice his surprise, he catches sight of a giant, black shape descending.

His heart stops.

This cannot be happening. This must be a vision, a nightmare – he should be dead, dead and rotting at the bottom of the Long Lake. This –

“Dragon!” Bergar screams.

Within moments, chaos descends. The shout echoes. A horn blows, a call to arms – two other horns reply from Dale. Men and women drop their belongings and run. Then the screaming starts – and Bilbo hears the powerful swoosh of huge, leathery wings.

It’s a dragon. Giant and black and heading straight towards Erebor.

But the dragons are dead, Bilbo thinks. Smaug was the last – Gandalf had said so. There can’t be a new dragon –

But the beast descends.

“Master Baggins!” Bergar exclaims, suddenly next to Bilbo’s pony, gripping on the reigns, “Come!”

He doesn’t know how he gets off his pony. The moment Bergar lets go of the reigns, the poor thing jumps and races away. Bilbo’s heart abruptly jumps into his throat –

All his friends are in Erebor. Thorin is in Erebor.

“We need to get away!” Bergar exclaims, gripping Bilbo’s elbow, but Bilbo is frozen to the spot.

A roar causes the ground to tremble. Somebody screams, many duck as the dragon sails over their heads. Not Smaug, Bilbo thinks. It’s not Smaug. This dragon is black as night, and not quite as humongous.

But it matters not.

“Master Baggins, we need to-“ With a loud explosion the beast attacks Erebor’s gates. The gallery that is still under construction collapses into dust, the arrows fired bounce off the beast’s leathery hide.

Black arrows. They need – but they’re all gone. Maybe this dragon has a weak spot, too?

“Please, we need to get away!” Bergar calls and Bilbo finally realizes Bergar is trying to pull him off the road. Away from Erebor.

Panic floods him. “No,” he shakes his head wildly, “I … Leave me!”

Bergar blinks. “I cannot leave you! I – “

Bilbo forces his own fear down, even the ground under his feet shakes. Screams are swallowed by the crashing of falling stone.

“Master Bergar,” Bilbo says sharply, “Go and make certain your men survive!”

The hand slips from his elbow, but he still hesitates.

“That is an order,” Bilbo yells. The dragon roars, and Bilbo looks up in fear only to see the entrance obscured by a cloud of dust. Fear surges through his heart – and he only remembers to shout a loud “Go!” to Bergar before he runs off himself.

Toward the mountain.

The ring is in his pocket, little good invisibility will do for him here. He manages to press a handkerchief before his mouth and nose before the dust cloud swallows him, and almost takes him off his feet. Within the blink of an eye the sunlight is gone, his eyes tear like mad – and only familiarity with the road allows him to stumble forward.

Within moments he spies the first body. The guard lies stretched out on the stone, head twisted oddly – he must have fallen from the parapets. Bilbo’s blood runs cold. Please, he thinks, please let them be alright.

Please let the dragon die.

His stomach twists. The arrows had gone past the beast like magic, and they have no black arrows anymore. But he can’t give in to despair – Bilbo forces himself to stumble forward. Splintered stones and fragments of murals appear from the thick smoke. Along with still, soft shapes on the ground.

He doesn’t dare to look too closely.

His lungs burn and the ground under his feet changes abruptly. The rougher stones of the road give away to Erebor’s polished marble, and he must be in the great entrance hall, though it’s completely swallowed up by smoke and dust.

But he hears shouting and voices, and sees shapes run and stumble past him, blind in the thick smoke.

“This way!” he calls, “This way!” And immediately doubles over coughing. He hopes they find the way; the smoke makes it impossible to navigate. All the statues, and pillars – invisible if not destroyed.

Another roar echoes from deeper inside the mountain. The ground trembles beneath his feet, and Bilbo stumbles. Heart in his throat, he desperately tries to see something.

"Thorin!" Bilbo screams, "Thorin, where are you?! Dwalin?! Bofur!"

Smoke burns in his eyes. The stone under his feet is split and singed, rubble shifts with each step and he gasps for air, stumbles forward. His heart is racing, pounding so loud he can barely hear the flames roar, or the screams.

Shapes weave through the shadow, blurry to Bilbo's tearing eyes. He coughs. "Thorin!" He cries, “Fili! Kili!” He knows, in the back of his mind, that it's unlikely his cries will be heard over the din. But he hasn't seen Thorin and he knows his dwarf, knows he will not flee before he has seen the last of Erebor's citizens to safety.

He's honorable like that.

But the dragon is not. Bilbo bites down on his lip, and forces himself forward. Something crumbles nearby, and he can only pray the mountain will not collapse on his head. He's stumbling blindly now, the familiar hallways burnt and destroyed, and -

And please, please, let them all be alive.

A hand shoots from the smoke and grabs Bilbo's upper arm, forcing him to falter and stop. A second hand stops him from falling. "Bilbo!" Somebody shouts, and the hobbit blinks to focus his vision.

“Bofur, Bofur, you’re alright, are you alright, where are the others?” Bilbo babbles, clutching at Bofur’s arm.

"Bilbo, what are you doing? You need to get out!" Bofur gives him a shake, and Bilbo can only shake his head wildly in response.

"No, no," he coughs, "No, I need to..." The others. He needs to make sure the others are safe first. He cannot let anything happen to them, not now, not when everything was supposed to be alright.

"You're going to die!" Bofur yells. A roar sounds in the distance.

"I need to find them!" Bilbo yells back, and a stature nearby crumbles. The air smells of burnt flesh and charcoal, and Bilbo needs to go –

“They’ll be outside!” Bofur shouts, and tries to pull Bilbo with him, but the hobbit struggles to resist. “Bilbo!” Bofur coughs, “Dori’s been outside all day! Nori will look after Ori, and I’m sure Bofur’s herding the kitchen staff out and Oin’s looking for his patients! They’ll be alright! You need to get outside!”

"But Thorin won’t! He’ll not leave!" Bilbo pleads, “Let me…”

"He wouldn't want you to look for him," Bofur protests, but the moment his grip grows slack Bilbo twists away. He flings himself into the smoke, presses a hand in front of his mouth and runs.

And he doesn't understand. He hopes Bofur doesn't follow. The dwarf has to live - he can't die because of Bilbo of all things. One foolish hobbit isn't worth that much.

Please, Bilbo thinks.

A red glow lights up the smoke, and Bilbo knows which way to go. With a burst of panic in his chest he pushes forward, ignoring his screaming lungs and the heat on his skin. Thorin is all he can thinks about, but when he stumbles into the throne room all he finds is desolation.

The banners are burning, statues crumble and the ground has been blackened. But it is no dragon rampaging through the grand hall - it is a man. Clad in black and unusually tall, the figure stands atop the throne, one hand grasping the Arkenstone.

The other holds a bloodied sword.

And then Bilbo sees what is at his feet. The crumpled form of a dwarven king, prone and unmoving.

Bilbo's heart lurches.

"NO!" he screams and tears down the throne room. And the world constricts around him. As in trance, he sees the creature turn, surprise on its features. Sees Thorin lie still on the ground, his face obscured by his hair. His armor glints golden in the fire shine, and smoke billows behind the throne - obscuring blood, but Thorin isn't moving. And he can't be dead. This can't happen. Not after everything they went through.

Not after all the obstacles they faced.

Not when they had been finally promised peace.

With an inarticulate roar Bilbo launches himself at the strange creature, the Arkenstone glows red in the firelight, something crumbles, he tastes ash on his mouth -

And the world spins away.

He doesn't know what happened. There are no gaps in his memory, and Bilbo does not remember passing out. But one moment he was throwing himself on the intruder, the next it all is gone.

Bilbo coughs, sinks to his knees on smooth, cold ground.

The taste of smoke still clings to his throat, and the abrasions on his feet smart. His heart is racing and his vest is soaked by sweat. But the throne room is gone, as are fire and smoke. As is the intruder.

And Thorin.

Bilbo flinches and casts a wild gaze around. There is nobody but him in the strange chamber. In the dim light he can make out odd patterns in the dark stone floor - nothing he has ever seen before. A shudder runs down his spine - this doesn't feel like Erebor.

"Thorin?" He calls tentatively. "Hello?"

When nobody replies, Bilbo purses his lips and forces himself to his feet. He feels oddly naked - Sting had been left in his rooms this morning.

He swallows against the sudden pain in his chest. This morning was just a few hours ago and yet feels like a lifetime away already. Had he known what was to come he would have -

No, Bilbo forces himself to stop this train of thought. He doesn't know what happened. Doesn't know how he ended up here. Or where he is.

The door slides open to reveal a slender being. Bilbo flinches - the silhouette reminds him of the intruder - but then the other being steps closer and his kind, ageless features grow visible. Still, Bilbo remains tense.

"Hello," the other one says with a benign smile, "I heard we had a visitor. What has brought you here, little hobbit?"

Bilbo swallows. "Where am I?" He demands instead. His heart is pounding - hobbits may be trusting by nature, but he has lived among dwarves and knows not to trust every hand held out to him.

"That will require a longer explanation,” the other one responds softly, “One I would rather deliver in a more comfortable setting. Would that be acceptable to you?”

“I need to find somebody first,” Bilbo returns, and his heart clenches at the memory of Thorin’s still form crumpled before the throne.

“I may be able to help you with that, too,” the other answers calmly, “though you will not find him here.”

A shudder runs down his spine and desperation wells up in Bilbo’s chest. Fear turns the blood in his veins into ice and he has to clamp down on the dark pit opening up in his mind. Breaking down will not save Thorin.

“Please,” he forces out, “Tell me how. I ... I must find him.”

The other’s features even out in another warm smile. He leans down and holds out a smooth hand. “I will tell you everything you need to know, little hobbit. Come with me.”

***

Bilbo does not know where he is taken. The corridors the other leads him through are tall, made of a material he has never seen and bearing decorations that may be symbols. Even the air tastes nothing like home.

Around them the world is still. Bilbo doesn't know if anybody but him and the strange other even exists in this space. Cannot tell if he is inside a building or not. There is no wind, no light source. Even their shadows remain at their same relative position.

"I am Kelmor," the other says in his mellifluous voice, "and you could call this my home. Though, as you may have senses, this is not a home like you would understand it. This is no house, not even a kingdom."

Bilbo swallows and nods. Around them, the corridors remain ever the same, and even though they cross intersections and gates, it feels as if they weren't moving at all.

"It is a world onto itself," Kelmor explains, “There are many worlds and they are all of them connected, though few know it.”

The words are important, but Bilbo’s ears still ring with screams and the roar of falling stone. His head spins, and he doesn’t quite know what to say.

As if he had read his mind, Kelmor offers a smile. “Do not worry, I know this is difficult to understand at first. And you will have to time to adjust, and time enough to think. I will merely tell you what I know and then give you a chance to rest and recover.”

“But Thorin…” Bilbo immediately begins, his heart hitching as he recalls the motionless shape of the king.

“Will be in no danger,” Kelmor replies, “Time… is a funny thing. It runs differently in different places and your King’s life currently is outside of time’s reach. I will not lie to you, there is a time when he cannot be saved, but that is date is far still.”

Bilbo’s heart flutters. “How long?”

“Months,” Kelmor replies, “Perhaps even years, at least from this world. It may be different once you begin to travel – this is one thing you must beware of; always remember that time flows differently in different worlds, it will not do to forget and grow roots. But I am getting ahead of myself – please come this way.”

He leads Bilbo around a corner in this ever unchanging maze of corridors with no windows or colors in sight. Now, though, there is a door and it opens under Kelmor’s hand without a sound. Soft golden light from an invisible source somewhere in the rounded ceiling casts the circular room in a welcoming glow.

There are seats here, strangely grounding in this place of abstraction. Bilbo follows Kelmor down and sits, the material unearthly to his touch. A shudder runs down his spine and for a split moment the small voice that has wondered what he was doing ever since he left the Shire cries out in despair.

Where are you now, what are doing, why aren’t you running for home? He is farer from anything he knows than he deemed possible, and he can see nothing but danger ahead of him –

But Bilbo ruthlessly forces the voice back and instead turns his eyes onto Kelmor. The other smoothens out his gown, before casting another fond look at Bilbo.

“As you have just realized, there exists more than one world. What you still need to know is that all of them are intricately connected. In persons – you may find mirror images of your friends and family in another world, and there may even be another you living there. But they will not be yourself, just as those familiar faces will not be the same persons,” Kelmor tells Bilbo, “You will understand, should you begin to travel.”

“The friends and the world you come from – that is certainly unique. Now, it hangs by a thread – but it is not the only one,” he takes a short break, “The worlds are all connected – one such connection lies in what you know as the Arkenstone.”

Bilbo flinches.

“What you call the Arkenstone,” Kelmor explains, “Is but a shard from another, a greater stone. Once, it was shattered and spread to several worlds so that it may enrich them and inspire their people. Now, darker forces are looking to collect the shards to their own ends.”

Bilbo’s heart sinks. He isn’t surprised; truly, hasn’t the Arkenstone caused enough grief and despair? Hasn’t it already almost cost lives?

“Is that why…?” Bilbo asks.

Kelmor’s lips purse. “I am not party to the enemy’s plans,” he answers, “But that would be my estimate. The shards, they possess power. Few exist that can harvest it, however one has begun collecting shards – and I am afraid of what end they will use the shards to.”

The smell of smoke and ash still clings to Bilbo. He doesn’t want to imagine anything worse. Not when terror has numbed his mind and he thinks anything beyond what he encountered will now end him.

“And that is where I would have need of you,” Kelmor ends with a wry smile. “You see, I am unable to enter each of these worlds – I must linger here. But you can travel – you can help me gather the shards and save them from the enemy. In return, I would allow you the power of your shard to save your world.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to agree – because, truly, what choice is there – but Kelmor holds up his hand. “Peace, little hobbit. Go, rest and eat first. Tomorrow, I will meet you again and then give me your answer.”

_tbc_


	2. A glimpse of something familiar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After getting to know a little more about his new employer, Bilbo sets off for his first mission.

He awakens an indeterminable amount of time later. His room, like all others he saw before, holds no windows and light comes from hidden slots in the ceilings and the walls. There are switches, and Bilbo wearily reaches for the one next to his bed.

He doesn’t feel well-rested. But he has probably slept too long already.

At least he cannot recall any nightmares. But even the reality of the strange and otherworldly room grieves his heart. Yesterday – the dragon, the terror, Thorin’s still form – was real. Even though the smoke of smell has vanished, and a fresh set of clothes awaits him, the images of Erebor’s crumbling halls are seared into his mind.

But there’s a way to save them, Bilbo reminds himself. A difficult way, and, from what he has observed so far, possibly far beyond him. But he will try.

He has come too far to give up.

With a sigh Bilbo pushes himself up, and dresses in the strange clothes. They’re black, and when Bilbo catches sight of his own reflection he thinks he has never looked less like a hobbit. Not even in Erebor’s dwarvish robes he felt so foreign.

But this isn’t even Arda any longer.

He swallows and presses a button next to the door. With a soft noise, it slides open and reveal another long, windowless corridor. After a short moment of deliberation he turns left – that was where he had come from, after all.

It’s not long before silently one of Kelmor’s guides joins him. “Good morning,” the elfin creature greets, “The master is expecting you.”

Bilbo returns the greeting, and inclines his head. “Could you show me the way?”

“Certainly,” is the prompt answer, and a cold shudder runs down Bilbo’s spine. The guides, as Kelmor had called them, feel unnatural. In their outward appearance, their smooth movements they resemble elves – and yet when Bilbo remembers the vivacious red-haired guard, the obnoxious prince and even that stuck-up, arrogant king of Mirkwood, he finds they all possessed a spark these beings completely lack.

But this is not his world any longer. His comparisons, then, are worthless.

“Through this door, please,” the guide eventually gestures and Bilbo stutters a thank you, but the guide has already turned and is drifting away. The door opens before Bilbo can gather his wits, and Kelmor waves at him to enter.

It’s not the same room, but the light here is just as warm and golden. Bookshelves line the far wall, strange objects – models perhaps, but of what Bilbo cannot say – stand in between, and Kelmor leads him over to a grand, cluttered desk.

Some of the documents there are written in Sindarin. Bilbo spies Khuzdul and Quenya, but those are few familiar letters among a sea of foreign and indecipherable writing systems.

“Did you sleep well?” Kelmor inquires and gestures for Bilbo to sit down.

“Well enough,” Bilbo answers. The chair is comfortable, but he cannot relax. Not when his heart races and a happy ending seems so far away.

Kelmor’s features soften. “As long as you have suffered no nightmares, I am glad. But now, let us come back to our conversation last night. I am afraid I overwhelmed you somewhat with the amount of information, so please, do not hesitate to ask.”

Bilbo’s heart pounds. “You said I could save them,” he blurts out before his manners can catch up, “By collecting Arkenstones?”

Kelmor tilts his head slightly to the left. “That is the gist of it, indeed. And it may sound easy, but I am afraid it is not.”

“I will do it,” Bilbo insists.

“Very well,” Kelmor agrees, “But first, let me tell you a little more. I have told you last night that there are many worlds out there. Some are very similar to the one you have come from, some could not be more different. Some do not yet exist, others have already withered away. If you agree to go on this quest, you will face many different worlds – I cannot predict which these are, nor what you will find there.”

“You spoke of familiar faces,” Bilbo adds, quietly. A part of him is senseless with fear. The other filled with quiet determination.

“Some will look familiar, others will not,” Kelmor agrees, “But none will know you. They may know another that looks like you, but keep in mind that these are different beings. Do not let yourself be led astray by them.”

Bilbo nods.

“Also you may encounter others also searching for the stone,” Kelmor continues, “Be aware that there are powerful enemies that desire it for their own purpose. At this time, we must act quickly, lest we lose our chance and they acquire the stones for their own end.”

“The stones will then help to restore Erebor?” Bilbo asks, “Do I have to find a particular stone and bring it back?”

Finding the right stone might be difficult. Especially if the enemy already has gotten hold of it.

Kelmor blinks. “Ah, no. Not quite like that. The stone – each stone is a shard, and their power is quite similar.”

“So any would suffice?” Bilbo inquires.

“No,” Kelmor replies sharply, before he softens his voice, “Certainly not. What has happened to your world cannot be undone by a single stone. The shards, if combined, grant a much greater power. A power to restore the worlds to order. Which is why we need to collect as many as possible, ideally all.”

Bilbo turns it over in his head. Order restored, Erebor restored – the second dragon never arrives, Thorin lives and his friends do not need to face unnecessary horrors – he nods. “I see. So what do I need to do?”

***

Kelmor directs Bilbo to follow another guide who brings him into another part of the building to a chamber that in a very strange way resembles Dwalin’s office in Erebor, though with a mix of documents and blinking lights. Bilbo stutters, as three persons turn their heads at his entry – but two immediately turn back to their work.

“You must be the new guy,” a grey-haired woman announces cheerfully, “Alright, shorty, let me show you the rules.”

And within moments Bilbo is given a ring – “We call ourselves the One Ring. It’s a bit of a joke, you see” – which will, the moment he puts it on, whisk him back to this world.

“But it’s only a way back,” she admonishes Bilbo, “Once you leave, finding the same world again will be difficult. There’s just too many of them out there – some are easily recognizable, others are beyond our reach.”

Before Bilbo can inquire how this is possible, she leads him forward, “And this is the travel room. You go in, close the door and they’ll transport you to whatever world they can establish a connection to. Some people prefer to sit down – in most of the worlds we have designated arrival areas and even pick-ups arranged, but sometimes there’s no guarantee. People have appeared in empty air and fallen a bit upon arrival, or ended up in the middle of lakes. So it’s best to be prepared.”

Bilbo’s head is spinning, though all he can do is nod.

“Very well, that’s all, I think,” she says. Then looks at Bilbo, who feels strangely naked in his black clothes with the ring on a chain around his neck.

“Don’t look so glum, it’s not that bad,” she adds, “And think of it that way – the more shards we collect, the clearer the connections between the worlds become and the easier it becomes for us to travel. Right now we can only ascertain you land in a world where a shard is – the rest is completely out of our reach – but once we have more shards…”

Her smile widens, and Bilbo is somewhat uncomfortable at the number of teeth she displays. “Certainly,” he mutters and casts a wary glance around.

But the room – though filled with some sort of equipment and a lot of documents – remains undecipherable to him. Too strange in its contents and too concealed in its meanings. He swallows, wondering how he will be able to help, when even the basics seem to escape him.

“You’ll get used to it,” she promises, having obviously observed Bilbo’s forlorn gaze, “We all come from different worlds.”

“Really?” Bilbo turns to her in surprise. Her features would not be particularly foreign in Arda, now that he thinks about it – only her clothes make her appear foreign.

“Yes, and now we’re all jointly looking to recover the shards,” she says sweetly and just a bit too fast for Bilbo to contemplate the implications. “So, ready for your first excursion? I think we have a nice world for you to visit – maybe you’ll have luck getting to the shard over there.”

And that is how Bilbo ends up stumbling into the room, confusion making his head spin, and suddenly the world fades away before he’s ready. Then his feet hit ground and he crumbles.

Bilbo’s head rings and he forces the bile back down while in the background a door is being opened, and he feels fabric under his fingers. Somewhere the wind rustles and the explosion of sounds and sensations after the dead silence of Kelmor’s world makes his head spin.

“You?” a clear voice asks and Bilbo forces himself to blink against the pain the bright light causes. Too long since he’s seen daylight, a part of himself reprimands, but falls silent the moment his eyes focus.

The room he finds himself in is not too unusual – boxes, carpeted and with wooden walls, though by their shape he suspects a cellar – but the woman before him has very short hair and is dressed strangely in a way even Kelmor wasn’t.

Bilbo flushes and scrambles backward, while the woman looks at him nonplussed. “You’re alright?”

He nods, unable to find his words.

“Alright,” she replies skeptically, “Come along then. I’ll get you settled in.”

And with that she asks him to follow.

***

Getting settled takes longer than Bilbo expected. His host introduces herself as Mary – a local operative for the One Ring, though she keeps quiet on what her tasks are. She looks him over, makes a curious remark on his height – apparently hobbits do not exists in this world – before trying to deliver an explanation of the place Bilbo finds himself now in.

And he thinks it couldn’t be any stranger. Already the many contraptions around him – small boxes that light up, display pictures and allow long distance communication. Boxes that display information – that he thought the light switches over in Kelmor’s world foreign now seems laughable.

So he listens and nods, and on the next day accompanies Mary grocery shopping. He wonders a bit at the lack of haggling and marvels at the wares offered. Smiles at the familiar objects – apples, in this world, come in reds and greens and yellows, too. And his tomatoes in Bag End would easily outmatch the small tomatoes sold here.

But the memory only reaffirms how far from home he is. So he turns away with a small sigh, reminding himself of his mission.

With each piece of knowledge he gleans, the mission appears ever more complicated. The world, he learns, is large and populous. Travel between regions is fast, though communication may become difficult. The technology makes Bilbo’s head spin.

And he has no idea how he is supposed to locate the Arkenstone, much less retrieve it.

“Well,” Mary comments one evening, “It sounds as if it is a large rock or something?”

“Yes,” Bilbo agrees. And swallows when he recalls himself cursing that piece of rock, when it had taken Thorin’s sanity, when it had almost cost him his life.

Perhaps he was right to curse it all along, he thinks, now, seated behind a – for him – high table in a small kitchen in some apartment in a different world. Perhaps he should have insisted on having the stone destroyed, though, knowing what he knows now – might that not have destroyed his world earlier?

Kelmor mentioned the power of the Arkenstone as a stabilizer. But he’d also spoken of worlds where the stone did not exist, so Bilbo has to wonder how these function.

“In that case you could look at the museums. If it’s fancy, it will be in one of the big museums,” she offers, “Though you might also check jewelry collections. If it’s sparkly, there’s a chance it might have ended up decorating a crown or some other fancy item.”

Behind them, the microwave pings and Mary declares dinner ready. The noodles are a bit too spicy to Bilbo’s likening, but he doesn’t complain. Though the next time he has a chance to go grocery shopping by himself, he heads straight for the vegetables. He even manages to stutter his way through the meat selection. (It helps that most people in this world think he’s a child. Mary even told him to go along with the misconception).

The remaining time he throws himself into research. Learning how to navigate online catalogues takes time, but it keeps Bilbo busy and the memories at bay. He barely sleeps, because that is when the nightmares come. When he recalls smoke and ruin, and sees Thorin’s still form on the ground.

When the doubts grow so crippling he cannot help but rise from the couch and switch the computer on again, browsing once more though endless entries on precious gems and rare diamonds.

But as time passes by, he feels the doubts rise again. Will he ever find the Arkenstone? How much time has passed? Can he still make it, can he still save his friends?

The darkness outside provides no answer. Lamps provide a little light, but to Bilbo all they do is obscure the stars.

And then, when he’s almost given up, he comes across an entry. A rare piece of rock, found four years ago in a mine somewhere far away. Geologists haven’t yet managed to completely classify it, suspecting an extraterrestrial origin.

For the time being it’s kept in a museum.

“Mary!” Bilbo shouts that morning while Mary blearily eyes him over her coffee cup, “I found it.”

“Really?” she raises an eyebrow, and Bilbo shows her the entry he found. She blinks for a moment. Then a faint smile curls on her lips.

“You’re lucky, you know that?” ,she comments, “That museum is about twenty minutes from here. We can go there this afternoon.”

***

The central museum of natural history is among the city’s larger museums, though the rock section is thankfully quiet. Bilbo has caught himself marveling at the enormous skeletons of extinct animals, and would have almost been swept away with the crowds had Mary not kept a hand on his shoulder and firmly guided him up to the second floor.

Fewer people wander among the glass cases holding precious gems, and Bilbo draws in a deep breath.

“It should be in the next room,” Mary mutters, casting a look at her floor plan. Bilbo feels the hair on the back of his neck rise. The enormity of his task resurfaces, and he feels cold.

The pass the long room quietly, stepping through a set of large, wooden doors. A faint glow is the first thing Bilbo notices. Then his head swivels to his right.

And there, set in a glass case, rests the Arkenstone.

Its glow untarnished, it hull without cracks. Its sparkle just as beautiful and mesmerizing as the one’s that Bilbo had once held in his hands. Next to him, Mary matches his steps. “Is this it?” she asks quietly.

Bilbo tilts his head and sees her eyes wide with fascination. He swallows. “Yes,” he affirms quietly.

“It’s quite beautiful,” she comments.

There is no mistaking that magical glow. And it may not be an artefact of evil, but Bilbo’s insides clench nonetheless. Its beauty has no hold on him, not since Thorin’s hands closed around his throat.

Not since his entire world was torn apart a second time for it.

Truly, Bilbo thinks, his face aglow in the Arkenstone’s eerie light, he could not care less for this piece of rock. If the fate of Erebor did not hinge on it, he would gladly leave it here – perhaps this world will find a way to shatter it. Turn it into frivolous jewelry to decorate the necks and brows of even more frivolous beings.

Break its power.

Bilbo purses his lips. The glass case is locked, and there are guards in the hall. His rings would provide himself with an easy exit, though he would leave Mary behind. As much as he would like to collect it and move on – now is not the time.

“Bilbo, sweetie,” Mary calls a bit louder than necessary, “Come on, didn’t you want to look at the butterfly collection as well?”

And with that Bilbo realizes his intense study of the Arkenstone has not gone unnoticed. A momentary flash of panic races through him – the guard eyeing them from the corridor, the elderly couple – agents of the enemy? Will they attack? Snatch the stone away from under Bilbo’s nose?

He forces himself to plaster a wide smile on his face, and saunter over to Mary, hoping his movements make him look like a child to the observers. Hoping that any present agents of the enemy have been fooled.

For this sake they maintain the act until they’ve reached the safety of Mary’s apartment once again.

***

That evening they sit at the kitchen table again, Bilbo holding onto a cup of tea and Mary sipping on a coffee. The air is heavy, and Bilbo feels fear blossom in his chest again. He knows what he must do.

“Disabling the alarm would be cumbersome, and I doubt you have the knowledge required,” Mary says.

Bilbo, recalling the many screens and blinking lights, nods. “Is there another way?”

Mary casts him an inquisitive glance. “I suppose you have something to transport you back?”

He nods, and she continues. “Then you don’t disable the alarm. You smash the case, grab the stone and run for it. You only need to be quick enough.”

Bilbo remembers the room at the heart of the building. He’ll never be able to make his way through all of this, not with those cameras fixed everywhere.

“They don’t watch them all that closely,” Mary reassures him, “Though a break-in would certainly be noticed. No, we’ll visit tomorrow again, and you go and hide somewhere in the museum. Wait until it’s in the middle of the night and the guards are tired – then you sneak in, break the case, grab the stone and go. It doesn’t matter if they see you – they won’t be able to follow you. And they don’t carry guns.”

Bilbo nods. “Alright.” And then a picture in an opened paper catches his eye.

“What’s this?” Bilbo asks and pulls the paper closer to him. His heart skips a beat – that is Thorin, though he is dressed in this world’s clothes and has his hair tied in the nape of his neck.

“Thor Durinson,” she comments, “You’re familiar with him? He’s somewhat of a celebrity over here – rich, successful, good-looking. Though they say he’s got a terrible temper, which is why he’s still single.”

She shrugs. “I think he’s gay.”

Bilbo blinks and she leans back, studies her nails. “I mean he’s never even been seen with a hooker, and there’s enough upstanding ladies he could marry and still get his jollies. So either he’s gay and afraid to admit it, or he’s asexual. Which would be a pity.”

Bilbo isn’t listening. The Thorin in the picture – Thor, he reminds himself, Thor – looks much like Thorin, down to the faint lines around his mouth and eyes. The picture has even captured the sparkle in those blue eyes, and Bilbo’s heart gives a painful throb.

How long since they last spoke? Hadn’t they last parted with a promise to meet for dinner? Will he ever be able to fulfil that promise?

For a moment his eyes burn and he hasn’t realized Mary stopped talking. She instead studies Bilbo, a gauging light in her eyes. “He’s not yours,” she says and Bilbo isn’t certain if it’s meant to console or warn him.

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself when he lies awake at night, wondering about this Thorin. If all works out, he will have left this world at this time tomorrow.

***

The time to leave arrives soon enough. Mary puts on a blouse and a coat, fusses over Bilbo’s clothes, reminding him once again that he is supposed to be child.

At least, Bilbo thinks as he takes a deep breath, he’s done burgling before.

And then they’re off to the museum again. It’s a beautiful day, sunny and not to warm. Bilbo’s blood hums with barely suppressed tension. Will it all work out?

Will he be so lucky?

They make it to the museum without a hitch. Bilbo is lost in his own thoughts, and Mary reads something. Will he see his friends again, Bilbo wonders. Erebor seems so far away now, but if all goes well he will be one step closer to home tonight.

He flexes his fingers while Mary purchases two tickets.

“Thank you,” Bilbo tells Mary, just before they enter the museum, “If I can do anything to return the favor…”

She shrugs and takes off her sunglasses. “I doubt out ways will cross again after this,” she says, and then her lips twitch upwards in one of her rarer smiles. “But you’re a kind soul, so go with my best wishes.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo answers, and before he can say anything else they are swept inside with the crowd. Many families populate the ground floor, milling around skeletons and other exhibits. Mary and Bilbo make their way upstairs. Slowly, but certainly their destination grows closer and Bilbo feels sweat cover his back.

Everything feels surreal.

They wander through the old halls, pretend to marvel at the exhibits. Pass the accursed stone, still sparkling eerily in its case.

Tonight, Bilbo thinks. Tonight he will make his move. Meanwhile, he disappears inconspicuously into one of the unlocked storage closets near the restrooms. With baited breath he waits a few moments, but nothing but the dust stirs. His eyes take a moment to get used to the darkness – there is some small window at the far wall, so he does not need to turn on any switch.

A glance to the ceiling reassures him that no cameras watch this area. And he is lucky as he finds a room far larger than a janitor’s closet ought to be. There are cabinets and desks and bookshelves, and the entire room is a mess of unsorted artefacts, documents and cleaning utensils, and Bilbo’s shoulders slump with relief.

He’ll just find a small, hidden space. And then wait until night falls.

***

The hours pass agonizingly slow. An eternity has passed until the light outside starts waning, and after that it takes a further two hours until the museum closes. Bilbo holds his breath the first time one of the staff steps into the room – but they take no notice of the dust that’s been disturbed, and pay even less attention to the cabinet Bilbo is hiding in.

They grab a folder and leave again. The door, once more, remains unlocked.

After weeks of crippling self-doubt, Bilbo feels almost giddy. Should it really work out? Should things be so easy? And a part of him wants nothing but to leave his hiding place, make his way back to the Arkenstone and get his task done.

Perhaps Kelmor will have news on Erebor.

Bilbo bites down on his lower lip and forces himself to stay put. But his mind whirls with half-formed ideas, hopes and fear and he doesn’t know how to feel. There might be ill news, he tells himself. He may return to find it is too late, the time to do anything has passed and the home he has known is lost.

Perhaps lost to a point where even the entirety of Arda falls out of his reach.

Or there may be good news. Kelmor had appeared confident, after all. Concerned, but not afraid – and Bilbo will take courage from this. If the quest for Erebor has taught him one thing, then it is that as long as he is alive – as long as his friends live – there is hope.

So he forces himself to take a deep breath. Concentrate on the task at hand. He cannot do anything else at the moment either.

Bilbo feels a lifetime has passed when midnight chimes. The guards will have completed their first round; their replacements do not arrive until two. The small room is dark, and the corridor outside silent.

His insides clench. A part of him wants nothing than to stay hidden, now that it is time. What if things go wrong? What if something unexpected happens?

Trust his nerves to act up at the most inopportune moment, Bilbo thinks and pushes the cabinet door open. The room remains utterly silent, even as he crawls out among creaks and cracks. After all those years in the east he’s still a Baggins at heart, no matter how many adventures he survives.

He stretches his cramped muscles, feels for the ring – still secure on its chain, hidden under his shirt – and tiptoes over to the door. The corridor outside is silent, and, once he’s opened the door and looks outside, dark as well.

Everything as it should be, Bilbo tells himself. Takes a deep breath and slides out. His bare feet make no sound on the polished floor, and he keeps to the wall. But nothing moves on the entire way, and before long he finds himself back in the large room.

The Arkenstone emits its own glow.

Bilbo hesitates for a moment, eyes the heavy glass case. He’ll have to smash it. The guards will come running the moment the alarms go off. He can only hope none are nearby, but the silence is absolute.

So he presses his lips together, steels his nerves and helps himself to the chair that the day guards sometimes use during their breaks. It feels heavy enough, almost topples him over when he lifts it.

It’ll do.

With one expansive movement Bilbo smashes the chair against the glass case. It explodes into a thousand shards, the alarm howls and he stumbles, off balance. Something cuts into his cheek, even though his hands are up, and his palms tingle. The world goes red as the sirens come on, and he forces himself forward, stepping over the shards littering the floor.

Two sides of the glass case are almost entirely destroyed. It’s enough to reach through and grab the stone from its stand. Behind him, Bilbo hears shouts, and his heart leaps.

Time’s up.

He turns, the Arkenstone clutched in his left hand – and don’t drop it, don’t drop it now – and fumbles for the ring with his right. The door’s thrown open and he sees the bulky shapes of two night guards burst through –

But then the ring’s on his finger and the world spins away and in the next moment Bilbo is back in that smooth, nondescript chamber he left from an eternity ago. He’s breathing hard, and his fingers are clenched around the stone, but his heart shudders with triumph.

I did it, he thinks, utterly elated, I did it. The stone in his hand glows softly, and Bilbo cannot stop the smile from spreading across his face. On his cheek, the cut burns, but he wipes the blood away in a careless gesture

I brought it back, he tells himself. And for a moment he believes he can do this. He can collect these stones, bring them back and help Kelmor restore order to the worlds. And Arda will regain its bearing, Erebor will be saved.

And then he can go back to his friends and spend the rest of his days at their side.

With a soft hiss the door to the room opens and Kelmor steps in, followed by two guides and one of his assistants. “You returned,” he says, and returns Bilbo’s smile, “Successfully, I see.”

“Yes,” Bilbo gasps, “Yes. I did it.”

He holds the stone out toward Kelmor, who takes another step forward and takes it. For a moment, he gazes only at the stone, a strange light in his eyes. Then he turns back to Bilbo and his features gentle.

“Well done, little hobbit,” he says, “Are you hurt?”

Bilbo shakes his head. “Just superficial cuts.”

Kelmor hums, studies him intently for a moment, and Bilbo has a hard time standing still. His nerves are on fire, but he feels alive and confident, and even though the guards had come at him, he’d vanished before they had had a chance to touch him. Right now the horrors hidden in his memory are distant, too.

“Is there any news of Erebor?” Bilbo asks instead.

Kelmor shakes his head quietly. “I wish I could tell you, but I am not privy to the going-ons within other worlds.”

“But I’m still in time? There’s still time left?” Bilbo asks, and the euphoria drains from his blood.

Kelmor nods at him. “I would know if there wasn’t. Be at peace, there is time left. Though…”

He hesitates for a moment, “I would offer you to rest for a day or two, to heal these cuts and recover. But you appear energetic – would you like to travel on?”

Bilbo blinks. His heart still pounds, and he’s barely been back for more than a couple of minutes.

But why not? Nobody here expects him, those that wait for him are in Arda. And the sooner he journeys on, the sooner he may return.

So he purses his lips and nods with determination.

Kelmor raises an eyebrow. “As you wish.”

And the world spins away again.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looong chapter. Lots of Bilbo, not very much of anybody else. (The crew returns in the next.)


	3. Under bluer skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo finds himself in another world. And meets these familiar faces he's been warned about.

Hard floorboards meet his feet and he falls to his knees in humid air. Somebody grunts, and Bilbo blinks, to find a large man staring down at him, a brown bottle in one hand, a dirty napkin in the other.

“A visitor?” the man’s shaggy eyebrows disappear into his filthy, long hair. Stubble covers his skin, and Bilbo involuntarily flinches backwards when the smell hits him.

What world – he thinks, but then the man bursts in laughter. “Honestly, what a surprise, that timing. But what’re you, anyway? You’re quite strange, you know. Are you a dwarf?”

“I’m a hobbit,” Bilbo mumbles, and sweat begins to make his shirt stick. It’s unusually warm in the tiny chamber – a storeroom of sorts. Behind the man’s wide frame he spies barrels and crates, but none of the technology the last world had.

The man holds out a hand, “Then let me welcome you, Mister Hobbit. Welcome to Port Maara. Where the water’s in the rum and the rum’s in the water.”

Befuddled, Bilbo lets himself be pulled to his feet. The man claps him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.

“You’re even shorter standing up,” he laughs, “Well, they’ll have a job for you for sure. Anyway, my name’s Hahave, local One Ring contact, at your service.”

Bilbo’s knees are still a little shaky, but he manages a grin in reply. “Bilbo Baggins, at yours.” His head spins – he knows these words, has spoken them before. The cut on his cheek throbs, like a reminder.

“Well, it’s good you got here when you did,” the Hahave announces cheerfully, “They plan to sail out tomorrow morning.”

“Sail?” Bilbo asks, uneasy rising his stomach, “Who? And sail where?”

A wide grin spreads across Hahave’s face. “They sail to find the Hetu’u, the legendary fallen star.”

***

Over the course of the next few hours Bilbo learns that the storeroom he appeared in does not official exist. Unofficially it belongs to a dingy harbor bar in a shady part of town, frequented by characters just as shady.

The atmosphere in the bar is lively, the air thick with smoke, music, off-key singing and the stench of alcohol. Once Bilbo is proposed, and he uncomfortably declines. Hahave watches, laughing. Both, bartender and bar owner are good friends of his, and the first few hours they ply Bilbo with alcohol, asking rather repetitive (“is everybody there as small as you are?”) and downright rude (“you, well, is down there, y’know, is that small, too?”) questions.

Hahave eventually swings an arm across Bilbo shoulder and proclaims they ought to get air. Outside, the moon casts its light on calm waters, and from the upper parts of town the soft glow of oil lanterns shines. A warm breeze tickles Bilbo’s cheek, and he can taste salt on his tongue.

Several smaller ships dock right at the harbor, and Bilbo sees the large, black outline of three great sailboats out on the bay. One is larger than the other, her shape even in the dim light appearing sleeker, yet wider.

“Aye, a beauty, isn’t she?” Hahave comments, “I’d really like to sail on her, once. Well, you’re lucky in that regard…”

Bilbo turns to him, and tilts his head.

“That’s her, that’s the _Erebor_ ,” Hahave explains and fails to notice Bilbo’s flinch, “Tomorrow she’ll sail again, and probably won’t come back for another two years or more. The captain doesn’t like being on land – rumors say he’s been cursed – anyway.”

He clears his throat. “They say he’s the best finding treasure, they say he’s been to Motu Garo and fought the legendary Teko of the West. If anybody has a chance at finding Hetu’u, it’s him.”

Bilbo swallows. “I think I …”

“You need to look for it, as well?” Hahave completes his sentence, and turns back to gaze out on the water, “I thought so. But you’d better sneak in then – Captain Oakenshield doesn’t hire.”

“Oakenshield?” Bilbo squeaks. His heart stutters. He recalls the photo, his surprise – but hadn’t Kelmor warned him? Some may bear familiar faces, Bilbo, but they are not your friends, and they will not know you.

“Fierce man,” Hahave replies, “Though they say he’s small, but I wouldn’t know. Never seen him or any of his crew. Too tight discipline, if you ask me. ‘S asking for a mutiny if he never gives them leave.”

Bilbo’s heart is racing, and he can’t stop thinking. Of course, they won’t be taking leave, not if the captain is Thorin Oakenshield. Not if the crew –

He bites down on his lower lip. That’s speculation. It is more likely that he will only encounter strangers tomorrow. And perhaps one man bearing his lost friend’s face. But that will be all.

***

In the small hours of the morning Hahave helps him to sneak on board. The air is surprisingly warm, and the stars glitter in a clear night sky Bilbo hadn’t even realized he missed. As Hahave rows them toward the dark, towering shape of the ship Bilbo takes a moment to gaze up.

Maybe one of these stars is his own world. Maybe one of these twinkling lights is the home that waits for him. But maybe he shouldn’t believe what people of other worlds believe – but still, Bilbo makes a silent wish. For Thorin to be well. For success.

And then they’re already pulling up in the shadow of the ship. She’s even taller up close, and Bilbo tilts his head back.

“The chain of the starboard anchor,” Hahave explains, “Looks pretty taut, so getting up should be easy. But try to be silent – you don’t want to be discovered before the ship’s well away from the harbor.”

Bilbo nods, and grips his small pack tighter. There’s not been much space for food, and it shouldn’t be a problem – he has made do with less going through Mirkwood. And yet he cannot stop fear and dread from coiling in his stomach, or the nervous sweat wetting his palms.

“Alright,” he tells Hahave as the anchor chain is but an arm’s length away. The sea smoother than Bilbo has ever seen it – out toward the open water the star’s twinkling lights are reflected on the water’s calm surface and the horizon has vanished.

A shudder runs down Bilbo’s back. Another world, another task – but he finds he cannot resist the draw of each new place. He has known splendor – Rivendell, the refurbished halls or Erebor – and the untamed beauty of the Misty Mountains or the peace of the Shire’s rolling hills. Seen the marvels of glass and steel architecture, the cultural relics and technological achievements of another world.

But this vanished horizon, this place with its turquoise waters, green mountains and white beaches makes him feel like a young boy discovering the world once again. He only wishes Thorin was here to share the experience.

Carefully Bilbo stands. Reaches for the anchor chain, and checks one last time if the pack is fastened.

“Try the cargo, if they loaded up the ship already they probably won’t check the hold too closely. Stay away from any foods that can spoil – they’ll use those first,” Hahave tells him, “But anyway – you’re small enough you ought to be able to find a good hiding place.”

Bilbo wraps his legs around the chain, and spends a moment dangling like a demented monkey. But the chain doesn’t give, and when he carefully begins to pull himself upward, no loud sounds – or even shouts – echo from the ship either.

He takes a deep breath. Looks at Hahave one last time, and the other man nods at him. “Best of luck,” he whispers, and Bilbo forces himself to smile in return.

They probably will never see each other again.

But that thought has left Bilbo by the time he reaches the ship’s deck. His arms ache fiercely and he thinks his legs must have been scraped raw. He stumbles onto the wood, suppressing a curse, and violently flinching when he spies the dark shape of somebody leaning against the starboard mast.

After a frozen eternity during which he doesn’t dare to breathe, Bilbo finally hears the snores. And truly wants to curse out loud as his poor heart starts to beat again.

Really, he thinks to himself, a ship this prominent and then whoever is on watch can’t even stop one clumsy hobbit from sneaking in. Just what crew of incompetents is he actually joining?

‘Neither thirteen of the best. Or brightest.’ Balin’s words echo abruptly, and Bilbo suppresses a smile as he tiptoes toward the open hatch.

***

Eventually Bilbo discovers a dry and protected space behind to crates and the wall. The crates store oil coats and warm gear – nothing that, he thinks, will be needed soon. And the fabrics help him to make himself comfortable, and through a far window he can even judge the time by the quality of light.

It is however, a very lonely time. And with hunger, the doubts descend upon him.

Is he wasting too much time? Should he confront the captain, try to force his hand? Is too late to rescue Thorin by now? What about the others? He never found out who survived – did Bofur managed to escape from the mountain? Could Bergar rescue his family? What happened to Fili, to Kili? What are his friends doing now?

At some point he falls asleep, and when he wakes he can see the blue sky through a hole in the hull and nothing but the sea ahead. Outside, somebody shouts an order and others are singing – they must have left port then, Bilbo thinks, as he grows aware of the soft swaying of the ship.

His stomach turns – he still doesn’t like water all that much, and the idea to be surrounded by nothing but water on all sites, depending on a construct of wood and fabric not to sink – he closes his eyes, forces himself to breathe deeply, and count to ten.

He still has the ring under his shirt. It will get him out, should it come to the worst, and that helps him to stay put for two more days. As he is contemplating revealing himself – he’s long since depleted his small stores of food and his stomach has started to pain him – a surprised exclamation draws him from his thoughts.

With a jolt he glances up, only to see a surprised expression on a familiar face, before cold steel settles against his neck.

“What are you doing here?” Fili – or another that looks like Fili – hisses, before he turns and shouts over his shoulder, “Kili, get the captain! We have a blind passenger!”

“I’m harmless,” Bilbo stutters out, and the blade presses closer. Of course, his body decides this is the right time to swallow, and he can feel the blade scrape over his skin, “Really!”

He raises his empty hands to show he means no harm, but Fili’s face only darkens. Up close, Bilbo can make out the minuscule differences – this Fili’s beard isn’t braided, and kept shorter. There is a scar on his forehead, and instead of furs and leathers, this one wears a linen shirt under a cotton coat.

“Step forward,” Fili orders, “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Bilbo complies, and hears footsteps drawing closer, accompanied by shouting. A spike of dread runs down his spine – Fili’s expression remains hard, unfriendly. And even though he knows this is a different person, the mien makes him unsecure.

“I truly don’t mean any harm,” Bilbo says again, “I promise. I’m merely – “

“Save your words,” Fili hisses, “The captain will decide if he’ll listen to you before you walk the plank.”

Bilbo’s stomach drops. He hasn’t planned for –

The door is thrown open, and another Kili is the first to burst in, followed by this world’s Thorin, Balin and Dwalin. All recognizable, but yet different and Bilbo’s head spins. There’s a piece of black cloth wrapped around Kili’s head, and Thorin’s beard is long and untamed. Dwalin and Balin wear strange hats and instead of his axes, Dwalin bears a wicked-looking saber.

“That’s the intruder?” this Kili bursts out the moment he catches sight of Bilbo, “He’s so small! Is he a child?!”

Bilbo sputters, and Fili’s sword doesn’t waver. “Not a child,” he replies with a frown that in another world meant he didn’t like something.

Cold sweat makes his shirt stick to his back, and he finally finds his voice, “Please,” he pleads and his voice comes out choked and pitiful, “Please, I … I mean no ill. I just needed to get away.”

But the air in the room remains unchanged, and Bilbo’s heart sinks. This Thorin isn’t even looking at him, and Dwalin’s expression says he’d sooner do away with the intruder than listen. Even Balin’s expression is shut off.

But these are not his friends, he reminds himself. These are not the people he left, not the people he is fighting to save. He mustn’t care for their affections.

“I am terribly sorry for being a burden,” he presses on, “Truly, had I had a choice, I would have chosen another option. If you desire it so, I can pay or work for my stay – but please don’t cast me overboard.”

Dwalin grunts and Thorin casts a short glare in Bilbo’s general direction. “Be that as it may. Who are you and what are you running from? I advise you to be concise.”

Bilbo swallows drily. At least this is an explanation he prepared together with Hahave. “My name is Bilbo Baggins,” he stutters, “I came from the north, a linguist accompanying an expedition. Just before traveling home I received the news that I had been framed for fraud. Now, as you can see, being on an expedition, I could not have committed said crime, but my word means little when a powerful earl levers the charges.”

He takes a deep breath, and goes into the crucial part of his gambit. “My crew told me to flee and I hid in the Port, believing I was safe until I heard that the _White Hunter_ would call there soon.”

“Your trouble is with Azog?” Thorin spits immediately.

Bilbo stiffens. Worlds away, an entirely different person without beads in his hair, but the fervor with which Azog’s name is spoken remains unchanged. It sends a cold shudder down his spine.

“He serves the earl who accused me, so yes, I must assume he will come after me,” Bilbo admits. Hahave had given him a general idea of this world’s Azog – a terror on the seas, hiding behind the flag of a powerful earl half a world away.

Fili lowers his sword a little and Bilbo waits. If he ever has a chance to run, this will be the moment. But Thorin shrugs, and turns. “While I have no way to check your story, I am no monster. You may stay until we reach the next port. But you will have to earn your keep.”

And Bilbo breathes a huge sigh of relief.

Even when he’s scrubbing the deck under the glaring sun hours later, his body still floats on the loss of tension, on the hope that things once again may turn out alright.

***

“We will not be heading for port anytime soon,” Thorin announces several nights later when the crew has gathered below deck for dinner. Bilbo has become a tolerated presence – as the waters and the weather remain calm, the more open-minded ones of the company have started asking him questions.

It’s almost painful, but Bilbo cannot bring himself to regret laughing at the off-colour jokes Bofur (who spends most of his time below deck minding their weapons) makes or at the wild tales Kili likes to invent. Even though he knows that at one point he’ll need to leave this world, it appears they will be sailing for some time until they reach the Hetu’u. And these persons – even if they aren’t his – are too dear to him to ignore.

Thorin, neither this one nor Bilbo’s Thorin, has never been one given to curiosity or being welcoming. He casts a cold look at Bilbo. “There are no friendly ports nearby, and we are well-stocked to sail for several months.”

His men grunt and nod and Bilbo swallows around the bite of salted pork. His stomach is growing used to the tough fare – all in all it is easier to digest than the spicy and overly flavored varieties of the last world.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin turns to him and Bilbo shrinks in his seat, “Are you familiar with our quest?”

The Hetu’u. This world’s Arkenstone. But Bilbo knows better than to speak up, instead shaking his head. Gloin chuckles and somebody mutters “How would a grocer know…”. The words are a fond memory, but the disdain hurts.

“And usually we would not share that knowledge with you either, outsider. But if you are to sail with us, you will help,” Thorin reasons darkly, “We look for the Hetu’u. It’s said to be a legend, but we have a map.”

“And we will claim it before Azog does,” Kili proclaims energetically. Fili nods his head, while Dwalin only snorts.

Bilbo’s heart stops for a second. If they encounter Azog –  “He’s also after if?” he stammers before he can stop himself.

“Of course, he is,” Gloin mutters darkly, “He’s a menace, that’s what he is.”

“Aye, and any enemy of his is a friend of mine,” Bofur declares and reaches over to pat Bilbo on the back.

“I… don’t think I’m an enemy to him,” Bilbo mutters over his empty plate, “More like a bothersome fly, really.”

The comparison makes Bofur laugh, and some others chuckle, too. Bilbo’s heart warms, even though he can only redouble his determination not to encounter this world’s Azog. Not only would the encounter doubtlessly be unpleasant – as far as he can tell, expecting Azog to have changed much is in vain – but his story would destroy itself in moments.

Only Thorin’s face has not so much as twitched. “We’ll be ready for him,” he announces darkly, “Fili, Kili. Take first watch tonight.”

***

For another fortnight they sail under sunny skies, past tiny islands, colorful coral reefs until the wind starts to grow colder. Clouds form on the horizon and as evening falls a thin mist rises from the water.

Bilbo gratefully accepts a long-sleeved jacket as it’s offered to him. “Are we headed north?” he asks.

This world’s Ori, busy cutting up dried vegetables next to him, shakes his head. “South. We’ve been going south for a while now, but we’re just crossing one of the colder currents. It should get warmer after again,” he shrugs, “But there might be some storms.”

“Aye,” Bofur chimes in, “This current is known to be unpredictable after all. But there’s good news – the lads caught enough fish for a small feast.”

The feast that night is amazing. But once morning dawns, the sea has grown choppy and rough, and Bilbo finds his knees weak. On smooth waters it was easy to forget his dislike of water – but storm grey waters lap at the wood of their vessel hungrily, and fear spreads through Bilbo’s stomach.

He swallows and forces himself to see to his duties. The rest of the crew appears concentrated and tense, but not worried, and he reminds himself to take his cues from them.

And that is well.

“Sails!” Kili shouts down, “Sails to the northwest!”

“Who could…” Bofur mutters next to Bilbo, while Thorin hurries past them toward the back deck.

“Who is it?” Dwalin yells up.

“No flag,” Kili shouts down after a moment, but there is a tone to his voice – an undercurrent Bilbo would never have recognized had he not been so familiar with another Kili in another world.

Dread coils in his stomach.

“White sails,” he adds. “The ship is larger than ours. They –“

“They need no flag,” Thorin spits abruptly and puts down the spyglass, “It’s Azog.”

“Are you sure?” Balin questions from his position next to Dori who has the helm, “White sails are –“

“I’d know that ship anywhere,” Thorin hisses, “They’ve been following us.”

“What do we do?” Dori inquires rather too calmly for Bilbo’s taste. Sweat has broken out across his back, and he’s rather aware of the fact that he has neither a weapon nor any kind of armor. And Azog may possibly reveal his lie.

“Prepare for battle,” Thorin replies, “They’re faster anyway. They’ll have caught up by early evening.”

“Isn’t there any place to hide?” Bilbo asks. He can make out the faint spot on the horizon, too, “A way to lose them on the water?”

Thorin frowns. “There are no islands nearby. And there is a storm coming – there will be no fog to hide in.”

Fear surges through Bilbo and he stumbles. They cannot encounter Azog, he thinks desperately, they cannot – the ship sway and he barely manages to catch himself against a gunpowder barrel.

Feeling the rough wood under his fingers, Bilbo blinks. For a moment he is back in Mirkwood, desperate and hungry and terrified. With no way to save his friends, no way out – and then: Barrels. Bilbo feels a strange desire to laugh overcome him – but he bites down on his lip and turns on his heel

“Captain,” he calls out and straightens, “Everyone. How about sabotage?”

_tbc_


	4. A gunpowder plot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's plan comes into fruition and they reach the islands. Though they have yet to find the Hetu'u.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late update is late. Apologies.  
> Warnings for violence in this chapter.

Bilbo holds his breath, even though his heart trembles at his own boldness. But the same spark that inspired the insane escape from Thranduil’s dungeons has lit in his chest, and he can see the plan work.

It’s as if he’s back in the tunnels. Only here the sea is churning and a rough wind whips his hair around his ears. Clouds have started swallowing the sun, though Thorin appears utterly unfazed. Instead he turns and regards Bilbo with a hard, flat look. Dwalin snorts, Balin raises both eyebrows. “How?” Nori asks, from where he’s stooped over, tying down the sails.

Under their feet, _Erebor_ groans and creeks and a high wave makes Bilbo stumble. .

“We wait until they’re relatively close,” he says, and finds a rope to cling onto. “Then we pretend to be desperate and start throwing cargo overboard – they’ll think we’re trying to get faster. But we add the gunpowder barrels to the cargo.”

“How is that going to sabotage them?” Fili asks skeptically, leaning in with his face grim. From the other side of the deck Kili shouts something and he waves back.

“One or two of us will be hiding in those barrels with gunpowder. We bring them into position, and then blow up Azog,” Bilbo explains and gesticulates wildly. Grim satisfaction throbs through his chest.

This is another Azog. These persons looking at him from well-known and beloved faces aren’t even the friends he’s missing. But Bilbo cannot deny the sympathy he feels, nor the terrible desire to make Azog pay.

And perhaps he’s being stupid.

“They might suspect something if we’re pretending to flee,” Dwalin cautions, his eyes fixed at the small shape at the horizon, “They know us too well.”

Balin tilts his head, and tips his triangle-shaped hat into Bilbo’s direction. “Or they may not,” he replies, “I think it’s a good plan. Thorin?”

Their captain purses his lips. Tied back, his long hair flutters behind his back, but against the storm clouds his profile looks kingly. And Bilbo thinks that it doesn’t matter that this is not his world, that this is not his Thorin.

He’ll always be helpless against Thorin’s blazing passion.

“It’s not exactly honorable,” Dwalin adds, but Nori next to him snorts. “Have you looked at that ship? He’s got at least a hundred men, and we’re fourteen. I say using our brains is just evening the odds.”

Bilbo barely hears it – he’s spellbound by Thorin. The dark coat that billows in the sharp wind as he straightens his back and tears his gaze from the horizon to find his crew.

“We blow them up,” Thorin decrees, “As Master Baggins has suggested. Nori, Bifur. You take care of the explosives. Master Baggins, Kili, you’re the lightest, you’ll also go.”

Kili nods enthusiastically, from where he’s hanging upside down in the rigging, while the blood drains from Bilbo’s face. The euphoria he felt just now vanishes and leaves him with his knees weak.

The ship shudders as another tall wave hits it, the churning sea beckons like an abyss.

“I… I can’t swim,” he stammers, meekly. Thorin merely raises an eyebrow before turning on his heel.

“Everybody swims,” Bofur explains and throws an arm around Bilbo’s shoulder, “Just paddle like a dog – you see, it’s easy.”

“But I…” Bilbo swallows down the rest of his sentence. Hobbits don’t exist in this world. They can’t have any idea of just how unsuited to swimming hobbits are.

“Don’t worry,” Kili adds cheerfully, “There’ll be enough driftwood around for you to hold onto. And I won’t let you drown!”

“We could also dump an overturned rowing boat,” Ori suggests, from underneath an oil coat that almost completely hides his face, “They won’t recognize it if it’s in the water and bottoms up.”

“We float two,” Dwalin roughly agrees and then casts a gauging gaze at the sky. “Don’t know how bad the storm’s going to be. Might mess with the plan a bit.”

Bilbo’s grip clenches around the rope. He prays it won’t get worse.

“Well, then let’s get ready,” Bofur announces cheerfully, “We have a trap to prepare.”

***

Two hours later Bofur has set up eight barrels filled with gunpowder. They are connected by a complicated system of thick ropes and smaller wires hidden between them. The construct, Bofur explains, will be underwater. While the thick ropes will insulate the smaller wires, those will conduct heat from the original barrel, ignite triggers in the other barrels and set off the explosions.

“Though the first explosion alone ought to suffice to ignite them, along with all stores of gunpowder Azog keeps on board,” Bofur explains as another heavy wave rocks the ship. The sky dark now, and Bilbo eyes the foam-capped waves with trepidation.

If at least the storm could pass –

“The powder won’t get wet?” Gloin inquires worriedly, “It might start raining soon, Oin said so.”

Bofur pats Bifur’s shoulder. “We made sure,” he promises, “Dry as dust, and we added some extra sulfur to make it go up easier. Anyway, Bilbo, Kili – we tied one of the boats to your barrels, so once you’ve got the barrels in position – and try to get one to the rudder. We may not entirely sink them, but if the rudder’s gone, they won’t be able to give chase. So if you get the barrels there, light up the fuse – after that you should have about ten minutes to get to the boat and get as far away as possible.”

Bilbo nods, though cold sweat covers his hands. Even Kili’s wide grin has faded a bit. “We’ll row with the current,” he says, “They shouldn’t notice us, then.”

“You’ll row out of danger,” Fili insists, “Uncle.”

Thorin nods. “Yes. Once you’ve set everything up you get yourself out of danger. We’ll have Nori, Bifur and Fili at the canons, and Dwalin has set up two crossbows, so we’ll cover you as good as we can.”

A strong wave rocks the ship, and Bilbo stumbles.

“We’re lined up,” Dori calls over from the helm.

“Go,” Thorin nods, and then calls, “Everybody on position! Balin, how long?”

“They’ll be in range in perhaps thirty minutes,” comes the reply from the back deck. Thorin gives a sharp nod, and turns on his heel.

“Well, in you go,” Bofur announces and Bilbo grips the barrel’s rim with shaking hands. It can’t be worse than clinging to a barrel while being swept down a raging river, he tells himself.

And he still has his ring.

Even though he doesn’t know if he can abandon this company, even if they aren’t his, to defeat and death. For as short as he has known them, as pronounced as the differences sometimes are – the distance this Balin keeps, the way Oin still is surprised at his presence – they are too similar to those he holds in his heart.

After all, he thinks as Bofur closes the lid above him, aren’t they the same in the end?

“Drop ballast!” Thorin shouts.

Kelmor had warned him not to keep his distance. Warned him these people wouldn’t be the same. But perhaps he doesn’t understand that these are still the same souls. Not the same persons, but their souls resonate. At least to Bilbo, who feels those connections he forged in Erebor echo in these that are just shyly blossoming here. Perhaps there are ties between souls that transcend worlds.

Then his barrel is pushed overboard, and Bilbo stops thinking of world and connections, and instead fights to keep the contents of his stomach as the barrel is pushed and shoved by the waves. It lurches, tilts, and within moments his back is wet with sweat, the darkness oppressive and his heart pounds louder than the wind outside.

He struggles to breath, tells himself to wait. Just a moment, then he can dare unplugging one of the little spyholes Bofur added. They’ll allow water inside, but Bofur had promised the barrel would still swim.

If it should sink –

Bilbo does not want to imagine it. As rough as the barrel spins, it doesn’t feel as if it was sinking. So he swallows down his dread and reaches for the plug, pulls it out, and is greeted with a blast of cold, salty air. He sees wave, foam – small drops of water fly in and he blinks.

And beyond, he sees the large, bulky shape of Azog’s warship. The grey sails billow in the wind, and Bilbo realizes the ship will be there in moments. His hand reaches for the tinderbox in his pocket and closes around it. The small box Bofur installed at the barrel’s bottom will contain the flame for moments.

Bilbo casts a searching glance across the waters, but he cannot see the other barrels and must assume the current and the ropes are doing their work. Then the ship’s shadow is upon him, and he can make out the coarse wood that constructs the outer hull.

He gulps down his anxiety, and pushes off the lid on his barrel. Hopefully the shadow will hide him – he casts a glance around and sees in the distance the lights on Thorin’s ship. They’re closing in, and it will probably only be moments until the canons are in range.

Hopefully Kili and his barrels have made their way to the other side.

Behind the ship he spies the overturned boat bobbing among the foaming waves. Not far, but Bilbo prays the rope will guide him there

With shaking fingers he strikes the match against the box. At first it sputters, his heart clenches, but on the second attempt the flame lights as it should. Bilbo breathes out in relief. Reaffirms his position one last time; hopes for the best of luck.

Leans over to light the box at the bottom of the barrel.

And just when his fingers are about to touch it, a piece or rope wraps around his throat and jerks him backward. He drops the match, his body is pulled upward by the rope, and somebody is shouting, and he can’t breathe.

Bilbo flails out, hands grasping at empty air, but there’s no ground under his feet, and he can’t leave the barrel, not now, not when he’s dropped the match, and they need to blow Azog up, because they cannot fight him.

He can’t let –

Black clouds his vision, and his fingers scratch at the coarse rope, desperately trying to loosen it around his throat, but the noose only tightens.

Then his back hits wood. Air floods his lungs. He coughs, senseless for a moment, before he weakly manages to drag the rope from his throat. Under his hands the wood is wet and hard, and he can feel his pulse racing.

The world swims back into focus, panic floods him. He’s dropped the match – and somebody laughs, people are yelling in a harsh, guttural language, rain hits his face and when he manages to turn his head, the giant form of a pale, one-armed man comes into view.

His shoulders are broad, and a long scar runs along the part of his chest exposed underneath leather coat. A hat covers his head, but Bilbo catches sight of metal glinting in the light of flickering oil lamps.

The ship sways as a huge wave hits, and Bilbo feels the floor tilt under him, digs his fingers in heavily, as Azog takes a step closer, a long rapier stretched out before him.

“Look there, a rat,” he snorts.

Ice floods Bilbo’s veins. He pushes himself backward, only to feel wood hit his back. The metal tip of the blade comes to rest under his chin, forcing his face up. And for a moment Bilbo isn’t here, but on a cliff side, facing down another Azog who urges his warg to close in on the hobbit.

Who sees easy prey, just as this Azog does.

“Now, I wonder,” Azog drawls, “What was that rat doing here. Let me see – “

And with a hand that does not shake in the slightest he guides the rapier down and pulls out the necklace around Bilbo’s throat. The ring glints in the light.

A confused frown crosses Azog’s face. “You are –“

Then somebody yells and an explosion blows the world apart. Bilbo hears the noise, then the wood underneath him disintegrates, heat rushes past his back, and he is falling. Air rushes past him, the explosions echo, the world glows in red and orange, something strikes his head – and he passes out before his back hits the water.

***

Bilbo wakes to a gentle sway and soft cotton covers wrapped around him. The smell of mint fills the air and an oil lantern casts the room in soft shades of orange. He blinks, confused, because he remembers falling and it can’t have been a dream as his body aches fiercely.

He brings up a weak hand to his throat, and the bruises are all too real and painful. Somebody must have saved him, he thinks, and his heart aches.

With a creak the door opens, and Fili almost drops the tablet with bandages in surprise. “You’re awake!” he exclaims and a smile spreads over his face, “Great, they’ll be glad to hear it.”

He pokes his head back outside and calls for the others, before turning back to Bilbo and settling himself in the chair next to the bed. “So, how are you feeling? Gave us a nasty scare when Azog strung you up like a fish.”

“Alright,” Bilbo manages to croak out, his vocal cords aching fiercely in protest. Fili raises an eyebrow and shrugs. “You probably shouldn’t talk much. Your throat looks rather awful, and Oin wasn’t too happy with it either.”

Bilbo nods obediently. The pounding in his throat is reminder enough, though he has questions. “What…” he says and gestures helplessly. Did they get away? Did Azog’s ship sink? Who rescued him? How much time has passed?

With an uncomfortable jolt he remembers that Kelmor is expecting him back. And there is a clock ticking somewhere far away – and if he dallies too long he may not be able to save his friends. Because these people – no matter how familiar and how dear – are not his. Now, as his heart no longer races with fear and excitement, he wonders at his own foolishness. He shouldn’t have risked everything on the presumption of knowing better than Kelmor.

These are not the friends he fights for.

“Your plan worked beautifully,” Balin commends as he enters the cabin with a gentle smile, followed by Dwalin and Thorin. Bilbo’s heart clenches.

“Though we didn’t sink them,” Dwalin returns with a frown, “But their rudder’s gone, and their sail burnt down, and there’s enough damage to set them back weeks at least.”

“We’re well on our way thanks to you, Master Baggins,” Thorin adds and the kindness in his voice makes Bilbo want to cry, “I hope you are well on your way to recovery?”

Bilbo inclines his head, not trusting his voice.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Oin proclaims and hustles past everybody else. Shoos Fili from his chair, before settling himself down with a frown. “You swallowed a fair bit of water, lad, before Kili managed to fish you out. And your throat’s a mess, but you’ve got more lives than a cat. With some quiet and rest you’ll be on your feet in a couple of days, though it’ll take some time before you’ll be doing any singing.”

A cough escapes Bilbo while Kili cheerfully proclaims they’ll do their share of singing on his account. He’s rather afraid of what song it will be – both for the abysmal humor Kili apparently has kept even though he’s an entirely different person and the ability of his heart to handle another reminder of how familiar and yet strange this world is.

He’s never felt more torn, he realizes as Oin guides him back to settle against the pillows. The warmth he basks him makes him happy. And yet his home is in ruins, his friends lost, and he has no true friends in this world.

“Rest well, Master Baggins,” Thorin recommends as he closes the door, “We will continue the search.”

***

His lungs don’t stop aching before several highly uncomfortable days have gone past. Combined with the angry bruises around his throat Bilbo finds himself speechless, and ordered to stay abed by Oin.

The first time he dares to show his face on deck, he unceremoniously hustled back into the cabin and into bed by an irate Gloin.

Later that day, the door opens and Thorin appears, a book underneath his arm. “I heard you were possibly growing bored,” the captain comments.

Bilbo, still shocked at Thorin’s appearance, manages a pitiful nod.

“I’m afraid there’s no library here to entertain a scholar,” Thorin says, “ But perhaps you’ll find this book interesting.”

He holds it out to Bilbo. “Thank you,” he manages, and smiles at Thorin. In the cabin’s dim light he looks so much like the Thorin Bilbo left behind his heart begins to ache anew.

“I believe I owe you thanks,” this Thorin states and inclines his head, “Your plan worked very well and let us escape the situation undamaged.”

Even as he speaks the words, his eyes trail down Bilbo’s frame, and his lips twist. “Mostly. Are you recovering?”

Bilbo nods frantically. “Oin … is very … skilled,” he croaks.

“Apologies,” Thorin says immediately, “Please, you needn’t speak – I’m aware that it must pain you.”

Bilbo shakes his head, but Thorin is already turning to go. “I won’t disturb you further, but there’s one thing I was wondering – when Azog pulled you up, did he make any threats? Did he harm you?”

Honest concern sparkles in Thorin’s eyes, and Bilbo’s heart constricts. He swallows, shakes his head numbly – even though he recalls cold steel against his throat, and Azog bringing forth the ring.

Ice floods his veins.

Azog has seen his ring. But, Bilbo fiercely forces down the panic, he can’t know what it means. The confusion on Azog’s face probably originated elsewhere –

And yet the unease lingers.

***

With renewed good cheer _Erebor_ sail swest. The weather grows calmer and after several days of ever warmer weather, one morning Bilbo wakes to turquoise waters and the shapes of islands on the horizon. Under an endless blue sky and with fishes in all colors passing beneath the ship in crystal clear water Bilbo finds his worries evaporate.

“The reefs,” Balin explains to him as he strolls on deck. The bruises on his throat are blossoming in blue and black, but they no longer pain him. “Notoriously difficult to sail, but very beautiful to look at.”

And between colorful corals Bilbo spies small, sandy islands. They grow in size until they sport patches of green. Shrubbery, palm trees, and the islands on the horizon consist of jungle-covered mountains.

The air grows humid in the days that follow. The crew’s smiles grow brighter and Bilbo finds he can start working again. Not for long – he still gets dizzy, and Oin gets upset. Fili and Kili, rather like their counterparts on another journey, have taken to drawing Bilbo into their middle in their spare time.

Thorin’s smiles grow more frequent, too.

And one day, he emerges from the cabin, casts a glance at the horizon – the dozens of mountainous islands covered in deep green, dotting the bright blue waters before them – and an expression of content spreads over his face.

“We have reached the islands,” he announces over the soft breeze that gently plays with Bilbo’s hair, “The Hetu’u is hidden on one of these islands.”

_tbc_


	5. Sinking Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They find the Hetu'u. And then their enemies find them, and Bilbo's adventure ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delayed update (RL and a rather messy start to 2015. I think I may celebrate Chinese New Year just try and start it better). 
> 
> In this chapter, please beware of violence.

They spend almost a fortnight exploring the islands. Bilbo learns to bear the sun while trailing behind the crew over endless beaches and through thick jungles. Up steep hills and into humid valleys. Exotic birds fly past them, showing little concern, and Kili makes a sport of imitating their calls. They set traps and once night falls Bombur creates amazing stews from fish and game. Once their stomachs are filled, Bilbo finds his gaze drawn to the unfamiliar stars, and Balin shares stories of the Matariki and the Hetu’u ahiahi. He also tells Bilbo how their crew formed, where they have come from.

And Bilbo gets drawn further and further into this world. The friends – not his, but wearing their faces and sharing their characteristics nonetheless – wear smiles. Bofur hums even when he declares a certain place cannot be where the Hetu’u is hidden, and with a shrug their company moves on. Another day spent under an endless, blue sky and Bilbo feels the pain and fear clouding his heart start to lift.

“It must be here somewhere,” Thorin tells Bilbo late one night. They are camped out on the beach, the sand dry and still warm underneath his toes. A little farther their comrades snore on their beds of sand and leaves and above the stars twinkle merrily.

A part of Bilbo is terribly homesick. Another feels himself taking roots – perhaps he is becoming entrapped in this universe. Kelmor warned him against it, but his heart has no defense against the bright smiles of these doubles of his friends.

And even less defenses against the wistful look on Thorin’s face. “I know it,” Thorin says, “The map clearly indicated this island. And we’ve looked almost everywhere.”

“We will find it,” Bilbo tells him and earns a gentle smile in return.

This Thorin is freer with his smiles. His own Thorin – the one who Bilbo guilty thinks grows more and more distant in his thoughts – was not so open. They may share a character, perhaps a soul, and yet, Bilbo realizes, their stories are different.

“What do you plan after you have found it?” Bilbo inquires, in an attempt to push the troubling thoughts from his mind.

Thorin takes a deep breath. “I would purge the seas from scum of Azog and his like. And then I would sail on. Find what’s on the other end of these shores.”

The moon casts his profile in silvery light, and Bilbo bites on his lower lip. He’s admired Thorin during their journey, but back then fear and anger clouded his mind. Now, the one he is looking at is not the one he misses.

“That does sound like an adventure,” Bilbo comments lightly.

“Would you like to join?” Thorin inquires with an affectionate smile, “I promised we would eventually take you to a harbor, but if you would like to stay – I believe you would be welcome.”

He cannot stay. Not with Thorin, not on his ship, not in this world. Yet the word echoes like thunder through Bilbo’s mind and makes his fingers tremble.

Because –

Can’t he?

Can he truly not stay? Forgo the heartbreak and the grief, leave the mad quest and its related peril behind – here, the greatest danger are the sea and Azog, and no mad, world-spanning complots and conspiracies. Can he not stay in this life of sunny and warm days, sailing on smooth seas underneath a blue sky?

“I’ll think about it,” Bilbo whispers.

Staying, he thinks, would also mean betraying his friends and abandoning them to their fate.

***

“This is it,” Dwalin proclaims, and Bofur taps a stone. They have found a mound in the middle of a thick jungle on one of the smaller islands. It’s fairly well-hidden; Bilbo wouldn’t have noticed anything out of order.

“You can clearly see,” Gloin explains, “The rock was moved here to cover an entrance.”

“Good work,” Thorin commands, and the crew seems to take a breath. Bilbo recalls that one, breath-taking moment when the secret door on the mountain had swung open. Back then, they were expecting a dragon and devastation. This company awaits treasure.

In a way, Bilbo thinks, he is both jealous and fond of his friends in this world. They are happier, their lives not marred by such grief and loss. He loves their easy smiles, the stories they trade of their homes – and yet he wishes the company he journeyed with could have known such joy.

“Dori, Dwalin, Gloin,” Thorin calls out, “Try to move the rock. Be careful, we do not know if there are traps. Also – Nori, Fili, Kili – keep watch. Warn us if anything approaches.”

He casts a gauging look at the sky, before nodding at the company. Dori, Dwalin and Gloin work out in what direction to roll the rock within a few, short moments. Thorin warns the rest of their company to stand aside, and then moves to stand in front of Bilbo.

And Bilbo wonders what he will do when the stone is found. Steal it like a thief in the night? Be a burglar once again, and break another Thorin’s heart? Become a traitor to his friends once again?

Perhaps, he thinks to himself, they will not find the Arkenstone here.

“Thorin,” Balin calls from a few steps into the cave, “Come. I think we found it.”

***

The cave is not very deep and does not hold any traps. Thorin reverently retrieves the Hetu’u, wrapping it into a silk scarf and carrying it outside. Bilbo takes a short glance at the glowing stone and his heart sinks.

It’s the Arkenstone. His adventure here is ending.

“Is that it?” Kili inquires, as he makes his way through the shrubbery to where the crew stares at the stone in awe.

“We’ve found it,” Balin announces with a wide smile, and Thorin beckons for Kili to come closer.

“All our troubles are over,” Dori mutters with a shake of his head, “I cannot believe it.”

Kili’s eyes widen. “It’s beautiful,” he says, “What does it do? Do you feel different, uncle?”

The question visibly throws Thorin, and Bilbo has to suppress a small chuckle. The tales of the Hetu’u they shared over the campfire to him seemed exaggerated. He knows the Arkenstone, carried it under his coat for a long time – and felt no magic from it.

“No,” Thorin replies. And Bilbo wonders if this incarnation of Thorin would have fallen prey to the gold sickness or if he would have turned from the treasure horde to his company and announce with a smile like this Thorin: “But it will help us free the seas from Azog.”

The crew laughs at that, and they are about to turn and head back to their ship, when a scream shatters their happiness.

“Fili?” Kili gasps, while Thorin turns on his heel with a shout, “Fili!”

Dwalin reaches for his weapon, and Bilbo’s heart leaps into his throat. “That way,” Balin points to the opposite direction.

“Ships,” Nori shouts as he crashes through the trees, meeting them, “Three. Azog, Bolg. They have Fili. Found our trail. They – “

Another crash, louder and far too close. Bilbo stumbles back, his head spinning with terror. Horror crosses Thorin’s stark white face, he turns to address them, “Run, we – “

And then a monster breaks through the jungle. A scream lodges in Bilbo’s throat, he trips over a root, Thorin hacks at another monster, and now there’s four, only they’re not monsters, but men, wearing terrible, terrible masks, and somebody is laughing, and there’s screaming and he can’t think.

Something hard and sharp wraps around his torso, and Bilbo is jerked upright. Cold metal touches his throat, and he finds cold, glittering eyes staring at him from behind a mask. “One move and you’re dead,” is hissed at him.

Before he quite understands what has happened, thin rope is twisted around his wrists, he’s picked up and slung over somebody’s back.

The fight is over quickly. Dwalin, Thorin and Dori take down at least ten attackers, but there are too many and Bilbo is not the only one to find himself with a blade to his neck. Eventually Bolg himself emerges from the shrubbery, and Bilbo recognizes him even in this incarnation. There are fewer scars and like Bolg his features are human – but twisted and malformed, and the cold hatred is unchanged.

“Take them to the ship,” Bolg snorts, and Bilbo doesn’t know if he should struggle or not. He could reach the ring – his hands are tied in front of him and he feels the cold metal against his chest. But he doesn’t know where the stone is, hasn’t seen it since Fili screamed.

Did Thorin throw it away? Bilbo raises his head, hoping to catch a glimpse of the company, but only gets a branch smacking his face.

Their forced march ends far too quickly. They exit the jungle on one of the wide, sandy beaches. Between two other masked men, Fili kneels in the sand, clutching his shoulder. Wounded, but alive and Kili shouts for him, but a blow to his stomach stops him from running over.

Several rowboats lie on the shore and two large ships anchor little more than a stone’s throw away. Fearsome, large things and Bilbo spies movement aboard – there are more enemies waiting.

They will not be able to take them in a fight. Perhaps they could outrun them, perhaps they –

Azog is watching their approach from the deck of the larger of the two ships, a fearsome smirk on his face. Bilbo and the others are herded onto the deck like cattle, with weapons aimed at them. Bilbo’s heart is pounding and Azog gloats.

“Did you think you had seen the last of me?” Azog asks, directing his words at Thorin, “Did you think that would cripple me?”

He straightens his back and looks down at the masked men around him. “You could not have possibly believed you could have defeated me.”

Thorin says nothing. But when Bilbo glances over, he realizes that no mad rage clouds Thorin’s eyes either, and his heart twitches with pain. Before he can think on it, Bofur whispers in his ear.

“When it burns, run,” he lowers his voice even further and it must be inaudible under the din of snorting sailors, “Our ship’s faster.”

Bilbo swallows. A trickle of sweat runs down his neck, and that is when Azog notices him. “Ah, yes,” the tall man says and steps closer, “The visitor. Actually, that gives me an idea.”

Bilbo doesn’t like the eerie light in Azog’s eyes. The company tries to horde Bilbo into their middle, but Azog catches him by the shoulder and drags him forward.

“I heard you discovered the Hetu’u,” Azog announces. “Now, how about you hand it over?”

Thorin makes no reply, doesn’t even react to the question, and Bilbo feels the hand around his shoulder tighten. Fear runs through him.

“Alright,” Azog laughs, “Boys, get the drowning stone.”

The blood in Bilbo’s entire body freezes. Azog’s men roar and laugh, but he cannot hear a thing. He stumbles as Azog forces him to move, one step, two steps. Up and onto the railing. His heartbeat echoes. If Thorin and the others are shouting for him, he doesn’t know. His eyes are spellbound to the heavy stone wrapped in ropes that two masked men carry in.

Terror surges through him, and he flinches. Azog casts him a gauging look, before tying the end of the rope around Bilbo’s throat. Tugs out the chain with ring and grins and turns back to Thorin.

“How about it?” Azog says, “You give me the stone and our little friend won’t drown?”

Bilbo’s heart is in his throat and his eyes meet Thorin’s. And finds in them fear on his behalf that the Thorin he journeyed with would have never dared to express. This Thorin gives a minuscule nod at Bilbo as if wanting to tell him it will be alright.

And Bilbo desperately wants to believe him.

Then Thorin brings up his bound hands and tugs open the front of his jacket. Clumsily, he removes the Arkenstone, wrapped as it is in several layers of fabric.

“Very well,” he says and holds out the stone.

Azog’s grin widens grossly. “And how about our little friend fetches it. Come on.”

He gives Bilbo a shove, but doesn’t let go of the drowning stone. The rope doesn’t have much slack and scratches against the skin of Bilbo’s throat. He feels as if he can’t breathe, and Thorin is quick to press the stone into his hands, wrapping his own around Bilbo’s.

“We’ll sa –“ he says, and then Dwalin roars “Now!”

Bilbo sees a small explosion, hears a scream, and suddenly the company starts fighting, and Bifur has his hands free and Nori has a wicked dagger, and Thorin holds his hands, trying to draw him away –

The noose around Bilbo’s neck tightens abruptly. He’s jerked back, stars exploding before his eyes, and he can’t hold on. His fingers slip from Thorin’s, only the cold stone remains, and in one moment of horror he knows Azog has thrown the drowning stone overboard.

“Bilbo!” Thorin shouts and reaches for him. The ground under Bilbo’s feet vanishes. He’s falling, the wind rushing past his ears and the sky is terribly blue and he can hear the fighting. Then he hits the water.

The rope around his neck drags him down remorselessly. Bilbo sinks, eyes fixed on the blue above, his head spinning, unable to form a clear thought, terrified. Suddenly he isn’t warm any longer, and the water presses from all around him.

He should have never allowed himself to grow so enchanted with this world. Who will save his friends now? Has he –

A glitter catches his eye. There, on the leather neckband, before his eyes, floats the ring, gently sinking with him.

***

Bilbo collapses onto the platform, gasping for breath. His clothes are soaked, his throat and back hurt, and the thrice-cursed rope is still there. But he’s no longer in the cold water, no longer in that warm and sunny world and far away from Azog.

He keeps his eyes shut a moment longer, even when with a soft swoosh the door opens. His heart is racing, and his eyes burn. How did the fight turn out? Did they survive? Could he have stayed and helped? Did they –

Thorin’s expression the moment the rope tore Bilbo away will be forever burned onto the back of his eyelids.

“Bilbo,” Kelmor calls, “Bilbo, are you alright?”

With a cough Bilbo turns over. His vision is blurry and pushing himself up is a great effort. “The stone—” he rasps, before his throat closes up. The stone is still clenched in his hand and Bilbo has to force his fingers to open.

“It’s … I…”

“Oh Bilbo,” Kelmor says and rests a warm hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, “What happened to you?”

_tbc_

 


	6. The lands of dust and dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo recovers from his last adventure and meets other operatives of the One Ring. Then he goes on to the next world, which is more hostile than expected. And then things go belly up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everybody who is reading. :)

With a gasp Bilbo jerks upright. Sweat beads his back and his heart races – he stares sightlessly at the dimly lit, windowless room, before the nightmare dissipates. He’s back in his room – not home, not home by a long shot, but safe. Azog did not follow him here, nor did any of his masked mercenaries.

The bruises around his neck smart and Bilbo turns to reach for the salve on his nightstand. Kelmor had insisted on a medical check-up, even though all Bilbo had wanted to do was curl up in his room and sleep. His memories are blurry and he doesn’t quite recall how he ended up back here. But the salve soothes the burn and the warmth of his blanket banishes the memory of cold water.

It hadn’t been icy. The sun, in that world, had shone too warm and too bright, the water had been too shallow to grow truly cold. And yet the memory of its smooth, turquoise surface sends goosebumps down Bilbo’s spine. He can still see the water closing above his head, the blurry outline of the ship growing far –

He swallows. He hopes the others got away - these masked men would not have been a challenge to the Thorin he had known, but this other Thorin – Bilbo’s heart aches. That tentative friendship, the offer to stay – it warms and breaks his heart at the same time. It may not have been his Thorin, but he nonetheless wishes him and the others the very best.

Even if in the end Azog is the one responsible for sending him off with the Arkenstone.

A dry smile ghosts over Bilbo’s lips and he sinks back into the covers. Even though there is no daylight in this world – at least he’s never seen it, nor an actual outside – it must still be in the middle of the night. He should go back to sleep, he tells himself.

Ignoring the questions that haunt him, however, is difficult, and when sleep finally comes it is uneasy and plagued with nightmares. Of the Thorin he is trying to safe and the one he left behind.

***

He wakes late and ill at ease. Azog followed him through his dreams and he cannot forget when the orc-turned-man cast the sinking stone overboard with a terrible grin. Even though Bilbo triumphed and brought back the Arkenstone, it does not feel like a victory. Especially when Azog had eyed his ring with unveiled interest.

The frightening suggestion that Azog may have known, may have been an agent of the enemy assaults Bilbo. If Azog suspects, Kelmor needs to know.

Bilbo forces himself to get up and dress. His body is sluggish and his bruises ache, the soft light of the corridor with its unmoving air and lack of daylight do not help. Nobody is near, not even one of Kelmor’s silent servants. With a frown he decides to turn left, hoping that he remembers the direction of the transportation room correctly.

“Shorty!” somebody calls not five minutes later and Bilbo turns to see the short-haired woman waving at him from a side corridor, “Heard you were back. My, that did quite a job on you, didn’t it? Come here!”

She raises both eyebrows as Bilbo reluctantly approaches. “Well, yes. Do you know where Kelmor is?”

“Not here right now,” she replies and waves Bilbo inside, “Did something important come up? You can tell us.”

The room is smaller than expected and dimly lit, but appearing like a sort of study. Bilbo spies a number of chairs and a large table, bookshelves against the wall and two men seated in a corner. They glance up when he enters, and Bilbo is taken aback by the black robes they wear.

“This is our latest member,” the short-haired woman introduced him, “He’s so new I haven’t even found out his name.”

“Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo mutters and inclines his head, “At your service.”

He’s rather unhappy at having been waylaid – he doesn’t want to meet these people, not when Kelmor may have news on his world.

“A Halfling,” one of the two pronounces and rises. The black robe falls around him like flowing water and his hair shines silver. For a moment, Bilbo is reminded of Thranduil.

“You know…” he stutters, and a soft smile, resembling Kelmor’s, crosses the man’s face.

“I am familiar with Arda,” the man says, “You will find that a number among us are, even though it is more than an age that I saw it. I am Gamarn, at your service.”

His companion – short and stocky, though still towering over Bilbo – nods, too. “Khamûl.”

He earns a short, questioning gaze from both, the woman and the man at his introduction, but Bilbo cannot figure out why. Perhaps he usually does not give his name so easily.

“And I’m using Ren,” the short-haired woman says, “But we interrupted you. You said you had news?”

“Actually, well,” Bilbo stalls, wondering if he can trust them, “In the last world… I encountered somebody and they seemed, well, curious about the ring. I was wondering if they could’ve been, well, with the enemy?”

Ren tilts her head. “Did they say anything? Try to hinder you?”

“They were trying to kill me,” Bilbo replies, “But they were already trying to do that before they’d seen the ring.”

And ironically, Azog in the end was the one sending Bilbo back with the Arkenstone. He wonders what Azog would think if he knew he’d actually been of help.

Ren grins, while Gamarn shakes his head. “Lucky then, that they did not succeed. But our rings may draw in unwanted attention. The magic they are imbued with affects those around it – not everyone in equal measure, but some more so than others.”

Bilbo nods. “Like the rings of power, then.”

“Just so,” Gamarn affirms.

***

Bilbo spends two more days recuperating. Ren keeps him company on the first day, however, she and Khamûl leave for a mission on the second. Kelmor returns and advises Bilbo to be careful – both for the draw his ring may have and for the enemies he may encounter.

On the third day, Bilbo declares he feels recovered enough and heads for the transportation room. In truth, between wondering what befell his friends in the last world and what may be happening on Arda, sleep has become elusive and the longer he stays, the more useless he feels.

Time is slipping away, he tells himself. He can rest once his task is fulfilled.

***

A cold and dry wind greets Bilbo. He tastes dust the moment he takes a breath, and when he opens his eyes, barren land stretches as far as he can see. A shudder runs down his spine, and he has to squint when sand gets in his eye.

As he turns his head away, he finally notices the still presence next to him. The man is clad in robes of a dull orange, their snapping in the wind loud now that Bilbo is aware of it. Both, the cut of the robe and the man’s features look utterly foreign.

And for a moment Bilbo has to take a deep breath. He’s farther from home than even Erebor was. The Shire with its rolling green hills is nothing but a distant memory now.

“Welcome,” the man says quietly, his eyes not looking at Bilbo but gazing into the distance.

Looking at him, Bilbo catches sight of snow-covered mountain tops in the background. He thinks of the desolation of Smaug, of Erebor’s snowy peak towering across the desolate land. But that was scorched earth.

This is utterly inhabitable.

“Welcome to the Land of the Koshut.”

Bilbo inclines his head. “Thank you for meeting me here,” he says, wondering just how far from any kind of habitation they are, “My name is Bilbo Baggins.”

Finally the man turns to look at Bilbo. Something in his expression changes and he purses his lips. “Interesting. Though you may want to cover up your face.”

Bilbo doesn’t ask why. And once they’ve started their trek over dried and sandy ground he is grateful for the scarf wrapped around his face. Even though the wind is icy, the sun’s glare is unforgiving and the dust makes breathing difficult.

He doesn’t know how long they walk. The mountains remain to their far left and they move parallel to it. Dunes rise and fall, and Bilbo is out of breath the moment he has scaled the first.

“You are from the valleys,” the man says, as he watches Bilbo desperately gasp for air, “Just like him.”

“Who?” Bilbo gasps out.

The man slows down enough for Bilbo to keep up. “Few come here from the valleys. They cannot survive the nights – they are weak. Like you are.”

A shudder runs down Bilbo’s spine, and he doesn’t contest it. His body protests against their environment already, and this entire world feels unwelcoming, foreign. He’s not weak for a hobbit – he wouldn’t be traveling this far if he was. But this world does not challenge his determination, but his condition.

“One, though, one came to Gyal Dzong with a caravan and unlike the others he stayed. An advisor to the King, they say he even has the ear of the Great Dragon.” The man continues, “But he is a slight creature. Like you.”

“The Great Dragon?” Bilbo echoes faintly. The sun is making him dizzy – the wind is too cold to remember the heat, but when he closes his eyes he still can see Laketown burning. The smoking ruins, black and charred against the water. Smaug’s belly bright red by fire –

An icy gust of wind tears him from his contemplations. “The oldest and wisest of the dragons. Only the King may speak his name,” the man answers, “All dragons answer to him.”

Bilbo swallows and huddles deeper into his coat. He still can’t quite breathe and his voice comes out thin and shaky. “The dragons of my world were all corrupted by evil.”

The man casts a condescending glance at Bilbo. “What a simple world you must come from. A dragon is not evil or good.”

When he sees Bilbo is about to ask further questions, the man shakes his head. “Save your questions. The journey is long and these lands have no mercy for the merely curious.”

And with a sigh Bilbo falls silent. His chest already aches and soon, his head starts, too. The air grows colder and barren lands stretch endlessly under a cloudless sky. He does not know if it is hours until his head begins to swim or merely moments, as the scenery barely changes. Even his indignation at his companion’s lack of manners fades.

With the sun and the wind gnawing at him he lacks the strength to be angry.

At some point the shadows begin to lengthen. But his companion gives no indication that he is about to stop. So they keep walking, and Bilbo focuses on putting one foot in front of the other. Ignore his thirst. His spinning head. The pull of skin on his nose and forehead.

Behind them, the sun begins to sink and the ground turns red.

Memories rise in Bilbo’s mind. There had been so much red before Erebor after the battle. Not so much at Laketown, it had been burned. In the smoke, Bilbo hadn’t seen any the last time. But Thorin’s body had been so still…

His heart clenches at the memory.

Thorin, Bilbo thinks and closes his burning eyes against the dusty air, please, hold on. Please.

It’s long after sunset that they reach the man’s small camp. Hidden behind a rock formation, the rocks together with a leather canvas keep out the worst of the wind, but not the chill Bilbo’s clothes do not ward off. His toes and fingers have gone numb and when he’s given a thick gown-like tunic, a scarf and a blanket he struggles to get them on.

“We rest here,” the man announces, “Tomorrow we move on.”

***

After three days they reach a small village. An oasis, the man – who had reluctantly introduced himself as Labsang – had said. A few scattered through the desert, mostly used by traders and traveling folk. People here were used to odd strangers and unlikely to look twice.

However, Labsang had also insisted Bilbo keep his face covered. From which Bilbo had eventually concluded his doppelgänger in this world to be quite well-known.

While Labsang had immediately abandoned Bilbo in favor of his own business, the hobbit had used the time to pursue the markets. Few things he recognized, and even those came in curious shapes and materials. Pillows were not bags stuffed with down feathers, but rather cut from wood and covered with fabric. Some tables only came up to Bilbo’s knees. He watched men smoke odd looking, bubbling pipes, the tea tasted twice as strong – and most of all he learned that the desert was a rough, brutal place.

It was different on the other side of the mountains, he overheard somebody say. There, the King and the Great Dragon promoted order and welfare. But the desert, they also said, the desert makes its own laws.

No Kings and not even Dragon Kings may ever govern it.

The Koshut rule it, but theirs is not a rule of law and stability. They are nomads who have tamed dragons and travel as they please. When they descend, they will take what they wish – animals, grain and even people. They are ruthless and merciless and yet the only ones to successfully live in the desert.

The Great Dragon of Gyal Dzong may stop them.

But Gyal Dzong is behind the mountains and the King, so the people on the markets say, is more concerned with the valleys in the south. The northern desert plains do not interest him, though he will welcome the odd trade caravan that has crossed the desert. And he will certainly open the gates for a southerner like Bilbo.

“You look like his favorite advisor,” Labsang tells Bilbo in the evening, “One who came from the valleys and stayed. He is perhaps why the King now looks south and not north.”

Bilbo stomach twists. A rebellious part of him wants to ask why the king should look north, when there is nothing but dust and sand.

Bilbo keeps his head down and his face hidden as he wanders along the markets. Labsang accompanies him today – tomorrow they must journey on, he had proclaimed. Toward the mountains and then the capital, but they do need supplies.

“Ponies,” Labsang shakes his head and directs Bilbo toward the outer parts of the market, “Ponies die in the desert. The mountain folks ride horses if they find no dragons to tame, but even their horses cannot brave the desert.”

Camels, however, Bilbo learns, can. Labsang buys three under much shouting and grumbling, while Bilbo hides behind his scarves. Not only is he smaller than everyone else, but among these people with sun-tanned faces and straight, dark hair, his curls make him all the more suspicious.

“From the valley,” Labsang responds whenever somebody asks. Bilbo gains the impression, valley people are not particularly well-liked.

“They are soft and weak,” Labsang tells him when they make their way back to the town’s center, “They do not survive neither in the mountains nor in the desert.”

They do sound like hobbits, but Bilbo refrains from asking whether they also are successful farmers. He has had enough reminder of how his kind does not survive in these surroundings and will be glad to leave it behind.

The sun, high in the sky now, burns even though it only touches the tip of his nose and sweat makes his clothes stick to his back. No clouds cover the sky and with a sigh Bilbo tugs the hood of his cloak deeper.

A scream rises in the distance.

Bilbo blinks, not understanding what is happening. He glances toward his companion, but finds him looking toward the eastern sky, a deep frown on his face. And like him, everybody else on the market too has turned to look at the sky.

"That's not ..." He mutters, and then the screaming starts anew. Bilbo sees a dark spot appear on the sky, before somebody roars "Raiders! Flee!"

"The Koshut! The Koshut have come!"

Labsang takes Bilbo by the arm and drags him away before he can figure out what this means, the market dissolves into panic. Bilbo is shoved and stumbles, a cart collapses, the screams draw closer and he hears yells now, shouting. He can't see what's happening, too small, but he smells smoke, and Labsang drags him along.

Somebody falls into Bilbo, and his arm feels as if it's being wrenched from its socket, but before he can even feel pain, something large and dark descends from the sky. And everybody starts to scream and run.

It's a dragon, Bilbo realizes, flabbergasted. Smaller as Smaug, but black and fierce and on its back sits a rider wrapped in dark cloth. A steel blade glitters, and Bilbo watches in horror as he pulls a round object from his pocket and throws it toward the fireplace in the middle of the market.

Bilbo blinks.

The next moment the world explodes, he's thrown off his feet, and Labsang's hand lost. Bilbo hits the ground hard, all breath driven from his lungs as heat rushes past his back. Fire is everywhere when his vision clears, and his ears ring and the screaming isn't stopping.

Disoriented he stumbles to his feet, his back aching. The hood of his coat has fallen away, and he has to brush a wayward curl from his eye. There's an unmoving body next to him, but Bilbo doesn't dare to take a closer look. His mind still struggles to understand what is happening, and he can't lose sight of Labsang now, not when he doesn't understand this world.

A scream to his left cuts off abruptly, and when Bilbo looks up he sees a black-dressed man wrench a curved dagger from the chest of a merchant. His heart jumps and Bilbo reaches for the ring on his neck.

Should he run?

The man seems to see him too, for he hesitates and then turns to face Bilbo fully. He calls something, but doesn't look away, and terror floods Bilbo's body. His breath hitches, and he glances around desperately, but half of the square is entrenched in smoke and destruction, and nobody seems to be alive anymore, and Labsang has dis -

"Bilbo!" And Labsang hasn't abandoned him, and Bilbo's poor heart almost stops, "Bilbo, we need to get away!" Labsang hisses angrily, and he hasn't seen the raider notice Bilbo, doesn't see him approach, and cold realization hits Bilbo.

The raiders have seen his face. And they don't know Bilbo isn't from this world, don't know he doesn't belong. But they've seen the face of an advisor to the King beyond the mountains.

He almost falls in his haste to stumble backward, one hand vainly pulling at the torn hood of his cloak, and Labsang pulls at him to follow. Maybe they can disappear into the smoke and then hide in the labyrinth of small streets. Under some overturned cart or behind a wall - just until the raiders have gone, until -

A hiss pierces the air, a choked noise falls from Labsang's lips and when Bilbo looks up he sees an arrow piercing Labsang's back right over his heart. The hand on his arm grows lax, and before Bilbo's eyes his only contact in this world collapses.

He needs to get out, Bilbo realizes numbly, he needs to flee. The situation is beyond him, Kelmor must understand. He will return if he must, but he cannot stay -

Staying would mean death.

He cannot die before he finds a way to save his friends.

To save Thorin.

Bilbo pirouettes on his heel, the sand scraping at his feet among the fading screams. Smoke burns in his lungs, an acrid taste in his mouth and the heat of fire warms his skin. He takes one step, two steps, fearing the inevitable scream or blow to the back of his head, but it doesn't come, and finally, finally the smoke clears up a bit.

And then a heavy hand clamps down on his shoulder, and he's violently jerked to a stop. His ankle gives, and pain shoots up his leg, sending white sparks before his eyes. When his vision clears, he's framed by strangers with their faces hidden behind black fabric, the expression in their eyes fierce and frightening, but they have a firm grip on his arms and he can't reach of the ring.

One of them snarls something in an incomprehensible language, jerking Bilbo while another one grabs hold of his hair and forces his head up. Bilbo blinks as tears form in the corner of his eyes, and the bandits mutter among themselves.

Whatever they decree, Bilbo does not find out. A hard object collides with the back of his head and the world goes dark.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, please feel free to point out mistakes. I usually self-edit, but there's always something I miss ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo gets drawn deeper into this world. And makes a curious encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delayed update. And a sincere thank you to everybody still reading!

Bilbo wakes to the desert’s icy night air creeping underneath his clothes. It’s utterly dark and for a moment he wonders if he has gone blind, until the sensation of fabric against his eyelids asserts itself. Another piece of fabric is wrapped around his mouth and an assortment of aches makes itself known. His arms are stretched uncomfortably behind his back, he is lying across something lumpy and his ring is out of reach.

A sudden sense of dread assails him. Bilbo forces himself to fight down the rising panic – yes, the situation is horrible, but he managed to get out of Azog’s clutches in the last world, too. He only needs an opportune moment.

So he stays still and listens. There is the crackling of a camp fire and two men talking, but the language is not one Bilbo understands. The wind howls over the camp, and he shivers as it brushes past him. The fabric of his overcoat – suffocating under the sun – now feels flimsy and thin.

His fingers are numb, and Bilbo sends a silent prayer skywards that whatever has happened to his homeworld – whatever his friends are facing – is not worse than this. One day, he tells himself, he will be able to go home. And they will greet him – Fili and Kili with their silly jokes, jovial Balin and gruff Dwalin, Ori with his shy smiles and Bofur with his wide grin. And Thorin may grant him one of his rare smiles and welcome him back and Bilbo will return to a life of worrying about whether or not Lobelia has absconded with his silver spoons in his prolonged absence or the tea imported from Gondor being too sweet.

In his dreams, they are all there. Laughing and happy and nothing bad in the world has ever happened.

When Bilbo wakes up, tears burn in his eyes. The blindfold is roughly torn away and he finds himself staring up into an unfamiliar, unshaven face. Dark eyes bore into him and the man snorts something in a gruff language, before switching.

“What are you doing here?” he grinds out and Bilbo stares in horror at his foul teeth. For a moment his mind is frozen before he recalls Labsang’s warning – he looks like the King’s advisor.

Bilbo gives a minuscule shakes of his head. The gag stops him from speaking still, and the man does not look overly interested in hearing his answer. Behind him, a pearly blue covers the sky and Bilbo realizes that it is just past dawn.

“You should not have gone there,” the man snorts down at him, “A pretty thing like you – why weren’t there more guards around, eh? Very, very curious indeed. Have you lost his majesty’s favor after all?”

Somebody behind him snorts and calls something. The camp is on their feet – maybe fifteen men Bilbo counts – dismantling tents and tending to their steeds; eight small-bodied dragons. A shout comes from another side of the camp and the man hovering over Bilbo glances up.

“Maybe not,” he mumbles and roughly grabs Bilbo by the shoulder, “To your feet!”

Bilbo’s body aches fiercely in protest. His lower legs have grown numb and buckle beneath him, but the man uncaringly pulls him forward, shouting something to his companions. Bilbo sees them hurry now, abandoning their tents and running for weapons and their dragons. The beasts growl and twitch – when Bilbo lifts his gaze to the sky he can see black spots in the distance.

It is not a rain cloud.

Three of the smaller dragons take to their air, but hover nervously next to their camp, and another man – the leader, Bilbo thinks, is yelling at them. Somewhere in Bilbo’s chest hope blossoms and he keeps his eyes fixed on the cloud, wishing for a miracle, a distraction – anything to cut his bonds and give him the chance to escape from this terrifying world.

A contingent of twenty dragons appears in the sky. Not as large as Smaug, but significantly larger than the bandits’ dragons. Their riders bear armor and Bilbo thinks they must belong to an organized group – perhaps the Kingdom behind the Mountains?

“Lay down your arms!” the leader shouts and Bilbo’s heart sings at the intelligible language, “Do not resist! You are apprehend on the charge of attacking the town of Kasahar yesterday.”

The bandits’ leader spits onto the sand underneath his feet, undaunted by the dragon. “And does your King want his favorite advisor with his head attached?”

The leader’s head whips around and Bilbo finds himself dragged into the center of attention, an arm wrapped tightly around his throat. He struggles to stay on his feet, pulling uselessly against the ties on his wrists –

And completely misses the soft swooshing sound of an arrow approaching until it slams through his shoulder and into the throat of the man holding him. A choked scream falls from Bilbo’s lips as the man behind him crumbles. The world twists violently and his shoulder is on fire and bathed in ice simultaneously and people are screaming, but the sound grows ever more distant.

It’s as if there was sand in his ears, he thinks as the blue sky shrinks away. Sand, and he is sinking deeply, deeply into it until all he can see is black.

***

Bilbo wakes up to a pounding head. Shouts echo in his ear, and for a moment he can’t quite recall where he is. Erebor – feels a lifetime ago. Instead he remembers sand and dust, the beating of wide, leathery wings and terror running through his veins.

His shoulder burns. Bilbo tries to turn, but that is when the pain explodes. Like a firework it spreads from his right shoulder, drowning out all other sensations and his vision turns white. Bilbo bites on his lip to suppress a scream.

It feels like an eternity until the burn abates enough for Bilbo to unclench his fists and carefully, carefully relax his body. The cot he rests on is hard, and his entire body feels bruised. Something cold wraps around his ankle. As his eyes manage to focus, he realizes he is in a small cell.

Bilbo’s stomach sinks. He’d hoped for a rescue – and now has to wonder just how much his situation worsened.

The sound of footsteps draws him from his melancholy contemplations and when Bilbo looks up he sees a group of three approach. A short person in elaborate robes, their face hidden under a hood waves and the other two – guards, judging by their matching colors and clothes – retreat.

As the stranger comes closer to Bilbo’s cell, he realizes that he’s just as tall as him. Bilbo sucks in a breath through his teeth and forces himself to sit up straight, and ignore the burn in his shoulder.

Just out of arm’s reach beyond the bars, the stranger stops. Hesitates a moment, before pale fingers covered in heavy rings come up and brush back the hood. And a familiar face under familiar blond curls meets Bilbo’s surprised stare.

The face is his own. And the expression of wry amusement mirrors the one he wore watching his dwarves pursue those odd, foreign practices of their kind back in Erebor.

“This is curious, indeed,” the other him says, “He wasn’t lying when he said you were a mirror image.”

Bilbo swallows. “I meant no offense.”

“And yet the heavens are disturbed,” the other Bilbo replies, studying his doppelgänger attentively. Up close, Bilbo finally finds those differences that are tiny but change the person. This mirror image of him has more poise. He seems at home in the jewel-decked finery Bilbo spies peeking out from underneath a plain but well-made overcoat, more at home than Bilbo ever felt wearing Erebor’s jewels.

And he feels naked under that discerning gaze.

“How came you to be captured by the Xiongnu rebels?” the other asks, “And where are you from?”

“Initially I believed it to be bad luck,” Bilbo replies and meets his doppelgänger’s eyes head on, “Though now I understand why they kept me alive.”

“Or this may have been a ploy to situate you within the capital,” the other answers without missing a beat.

“It wasn’t!” Bilbo exclaims, “They kidnapped me! And they certainly would’ve treated me better if I was on their side, wouldn’t they?”

His shoulder throbs fiercely at the reminder, and Bilbo bites down on his lip. “Please,” he adds, and doesn’t care that he is begging, “I have nothing to do with them.”

This world’s Bilbo’s expression remains closed-off. Instead of showing the kindness Bilbo himself would have offered, his lips thin. “Perhaps,” he says, “Or perhaps not. It would not be the first magical ploy to capture Gyal Dzong, and it will not be the last. Curious, indeed. But we know that something stirs out there. The Xiongnu are nervous, and the Zunghar are gathering at Karasahr. The heavens say that evil is coming. And now you have appeared, bearing my face.”

And now the other Bilbo leans closer, just as ice crawls through Bilbo’s veins. “Let me ask you, again. Where do you come from? And why are you here?”

Bilbo shudders. “I’m … I’m from far away, but I swear I mean no ill.”

The other him remains utterly unimpressed. “And what reason do I have to believe that? Don’t you think I would know if there had been another bearing my face? But whatever evil magic has been used, the Great Dragon will know.”

Bilbo blinks, dread coiling in his stomach.

“Today at sunset you will face him,” his doppelgänger announces, and Bilbo swallows against the fear spreading through his body. Can the Great Dragon see the truth? Will he see Bilbo has come for the Arkenstone? May he discern the end which Bilbo serves, or will he only see the burglar? Or worse, will he view the powers that have brought Bilbo here as something evil?

Without the ring, Bilbo will not be able to escape punishment. Without the ring, he cannot flee from this world. And if he dies here, the world he fights to save will be irrevocably lost.

***

As the shadows lengthen, two guards approach the cell. “It is time,” one of them announces, his voice cold. He holds out a large black sheet cut from black fabric, while another unlocks the door to Bilbo’s small cell.

Bilbo remains seated, though his heart pounds wildly. Please, let this end will, he thinks just before the guard throws the fabric over his head and casts his world into darkness. The fabric is tied around his throat – not so suffocate, but uncomfortably tight, and it makes sense that the other him doesn’t want the doppelgänger’s face seen.

It does little to calm the terror flooding his veins as his arms are dragged behind his back and tied at the wrists. He is dragged out of his cell, his knees aching in protest, but the guards pay his groans no attention. They force him to walk, jerking at his shoulder if he stumbles and the pain makes Bilbo see stars. Breathing through the fabric is a nightmare, and his face is so hot he wonders if he is crying.

The path is endless, the stone under his feet rough and cold – until it changes to smooth, cool marble. He is forced to his knees and hears the guards take a step back.

“This is him?” a familiar voice asks as hands loosen the ties and finally, finally the fabric is torn away from Bilbo’s face and he breathe again. Sweat makes his hair stick uncomfortably to his face, but with his hands tied there is little he can do.

Instead, he finds himself kneeling before this world’s Bilbo and Thorin. And his heart skips a beat. This Thorin looks to unfamiliar, with his eyes clear and cold and his features rugged, but tanned.

“I understand your concern,” Thorin says to the other him, “This is a rare likelihood indeed.”

The other Bilbo inclines his head. “Whatever this means, I doubt it is good.”

And for a moment Bilbo sees this Thorin’s eyes light up with warmth and affection, and his own heart aches as he spies the subtle touch this Thorin bestows on the other’s hand.

“Worry not,” Thorin says, gently, “We shall find the truth and no harm shall come to you.”

Oh Thorin, Bilbo thinks, even if this isn’t you – if this is some other incarnation – you still make those heart-breaking promises. And even though this world’s Bilbo retains a far stricter control of his mien than Bilbo ever could, he is familiar enough with his own face to recognize the softening expression for what it is.

Perhaps there is some string of fate tying Thorin and him together, regardless of what world they are in.

Then Thorin steps forward, his face expressionless again. “I will ask you again, stranger,” he addresses Bilbo, “Where do you come from, and why are you here?”

“A very distant land,” Bilbo replies, knowing that his answer will not be enough. He only prays he will not be killed on the spot, “And my intentions are not evil.”

“Not evil, but you cannot name them,” Thorin states, “In peacetimes this would suffice for a swift execution, and it has been long since this kingdom has known peace. Very well, I would know what is behind this.”

And with that he turns from Bilbo, walks past him and toward the yawning darkness of the large room.

“Greatest of the Dragons,” Thorin shouts into the void, “Hear my ask!”

There is a rumbling in the darkness, and something massive moves in the shadows. The ground under Bilbo’s feet trembles as fear spreads through his body. Both, this world’s Thorin and Bilbo incline their heads, as a giant, golden head emerges.

He must be larger than Smaug, is Bilbo’s first, terrified thought. Much larger, much older and far, far more intelligent. Cat-like eyes assess all three of them with one glance alone, and Bilbo feels his knees grow weak.

He cannot hope to keep his secrets.

This dragon will see through all of it, with one giant, green eye alone.

“At this time of darkening skies, you come to me with great questions, King of Men,” the dragon rumbles, and the ground shakes, “And your hearts are troubled as evil draws nearer and nearer with each passing hour.”

“Soon,” the dragon hisses and his eye turns toward the vast skylight, “Soon we all must fight.”

“And we will face it together,” Thorin replies evenly, “But tonight I come with another problem.”

“The other one, I see,” the dragon says, “Your companion has found a double – one that should not rightfully be here.”

Bilbo’s heart drops abruptly, while the other him raises his head. “We would not trouble you with this,” he supplies, “But I fear ill magic lies behind his appearance and he will betray neither his origins nor his purpose.”

The dragon turns its all-seeing eyes on Bilbo. “You reek of evil, stranger from a strange land,” the Great Dragon says, “A cloud of black malice surrounds you and yet what mars your heart is not evil but grief.”

Bilbo shudders under the gaze, but cannot avert his eyes. “I mean no ill,” he whispers.

“Mean to or not, there is much blood spilled on your path. A small being you may be, but an avalanche may start with a pebble. Your deeds echo beyond you and may yet be of a consequence you do not imagine.” The dragon straightens his neck and turns back to this world’s Thorin and Bilbo.

“Evil he is not. But evil may follow in his steps. You would be wise to –“

“Your majesty!” the door to the chamber flies open and a runner dressed in a leathers stumble in, utterly out of breath, “Your majesty, forgive me! The city is under attack!”

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Errr, I do have [tumblr](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/paranoidfridge)? (mostly I reblog pretty fanart).


	8. An unexpected encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's adventure in the land of the Koshut draws to an end. But not as he expects it.

Bilbo’s heart sinks as he watches the messenger lean over, panting. “The Xiongnu… they’ve come.”

“Probably in response to the raid,” this world’s Thorin murmurs and reaches for the sword strapped to his side. “Run to the generals and tell them to prepare a counter attack! Everybody to arms!”

The messenger nods, before turning on his heel and running out, his footsteps echoing on the polished floor. Thorin whirls to the dragon hovering behind them and squares his shoulders. “Will you help defend this city?”

Something like a smile crosses those leathery lips and a deep rumble from the Great Dragon’s throat makes the ground under Bilbo’s knees tremble. “I will, o King. This has been my home for centuries and I and my kin will defend it.”

This world’s Thorin inclines his head. The dragon moves, and Bilbo only now realizes that until now the Great Dragon has been lying. Now that it stretches its limbs it is easily twice as huge as Smaug, and Bilbo watches with wide eyes as the creature spreads its wings and disappears into the darkness above. There must be an exit there – but all Bilbo can see is blackness, while the beat of powerful wings grows quieter.

“Bilbo,” and Bilbo flinches even though he knows that not him but his double is being addressed, “Take the prisoner to the treasure chamber until this is over. Then go up into the palace, find my sister and take her and her family down to the town hall.”

Bilbo sees his double give a sharp nod. “And after that I will come and find you.”

Bilbo’s heart hitches and this world’s Thorin sighs. “Be careful.”

Fingers dig painfully into Bilbo’s shoulder while his double grimaces. “You, too,” he says, “I’ll be with you shortly.”

Thorin takes a small breath and Bilbo can watch him steel himself. All the small gestures are so painfully similar to Bilbo’s Thorin – the way his fingers tighten around the grip of his sword, how the lines around his mouth deepen. And with a swish of his ornamental fur coat this world’s Thorin turns on his heel, walking toward the exit.

Bilbo stares after him, pain in his heart and confusion in his mind. For a moment he feels lost, as if this world with its dust and dragons has finally managed to pull him under. His goal feels increasingly out of reach –

“To your feet,” this world’s Bilbo orders sharply and Bilbo’s legs ache fiercely as he is pulled up. “No tricks. You’d not get far.”

The threat in his own voice sends a cold shudder down Bilbo’s spine. He bows his head, thoughts spinning uselessly – if only his hands weren’t tied behind his back, if only he could reach the ring. A loud crash from elsewhere echoes down the corridor and his double in this world grimaces.

“Hurry up,” he orders and pulls Bilbo towards a side corridor. The light is dim and this world’s palace holds none of Erebor’s glow. Built in shades of brown and white, the corridors are narrow and tall.

A golden glow from the corner of his eye catches Bilbo’s attention. He casts a hurried glance to his left, just long enough to recognize the familiar shine of gold emanating from an open hall, the doorway alone small but as tall as the statues guarding Erebor’s entrance. A cold draft hits his face, just as this world’s Bilbo gives his arm a jerk.

“This way,” he tells Bilbo sharply and drags him past the hall. Bilbo’s head whirls, his short impression of this world’s treasury overlapping with memories of Erebor. The unhealthy glow permeating the gargantuan chamber, the feel of cursed gold – a cold shudder runs down his spine.

Outside a loud explosion booms and the ground shakes. His double in this world frowns, anxiousness crossing his face for a split moment. And Bilbo feels his heart soften. For all the harsh suspicion he has been met with, he can see the similarities. He knows that look, knows it for it is what he can see in the mirror whenever Thorin is out confronting bands of marauding orcs or smugglers. The thread connection this world’s Bilbo and Thorin is the one Bilbo feels aching in his own heart.

And he cannot find it within him to be upset when this world’s Bilbo gives him a particularly hard shove that makes him stumble. Even when he is pushed into a small, windowless chamber and his double slams the door shut, all Bilbo wants to do is wish him the best of luck. Tell him to go and find his Thorin and this world’s Fili and Kili and Dori and Balin, if they exist.

Because he knows the pain of missing those dear to his heart all too well.

So lost in his thoughts Bilbo is that it takes him a good, long while until he realizes that the door was slammed shut, but not locked. And when he curiously gives the thick wooden construct a light push with his shoulder.

Bilbo stares at the half-open door, dumbfounded. After everything that has happened, this is the last likely outcome he expected. It doesn’t help that his hands are still tied behind his back, thus rendering the ring out of reach. But if the treasure chamber he spied is anything like Erebor’s, it will hold ancient weapons.

If not the stone itself.

A small spark of hope relights itself in the depths of Bilbo’s chest. Carefully he pushes the door open a bit wider, but the corridor remains empty. He hasn’t seen many guards or other persons in the palace itself – if he is lucky, they are all outside now, fighting. So while it may be utterly rude to abuse the opportunity, Bilbo tells himself that in this case the end will have to justify the means.

And he doubts anybody here would appreciate him joining the fight.

With a small shake of his head Bilbo casts a glance around the corner. The corridor is completely empty and he cannot hear approaching footsteps either. No noise echoes from any corner of the palace, nothing except his own breathing and the pounding of his own heart. His footsteps, at least, are silent on the cold stone.

Two corridors up and he spies the familiar golden glow again. Something cold runs through him, a memory of his first look upon the dragon’s horde. Back when he’d not known of the evil of gold. Bilbo frowns and hope that this world’s treasury is not similarly cursed.

It certainly is much more orderly. The treasure is arranged neatly, sorted into chests and piled high. Yet in its impression, little changes – mountains of golden coins blink at Bilbo and he catches the sparkle of diamonds. And up in the center, atop a platform and fixed onto a stone tablet sits the brilliantly shining Arkenstone.

Or whatever this world calls it, Bilbo thinks to himself and feels his lips curl. At last, and a small sigh escapes him. Who would have thought that after all the terror his way would still lead him here? He had been decided on giving up this world for a lost cause after Labsang’s death. And now, after many strange twists and turns he finds himself gazing upon the object of his desires.

Maybe, Bilbo wonders idly, there is indeed some sort of fate involved. Or chance does truly work in curious ways.

Still, he does need his hands free. An inquisitive glance around comes up with a number of weapons and Bilbo eventually settles for a small dagger. Some awkward maneuvering delivers it into his right hand, and Bilbo has to rotate his wrist as much as possible to regain feeling in his fingers. Now all he needs to do is cut the rope without cutting himself – which turns out trickier than expected when Bilbo finds the blade biting into the skin of his own hand almost immediately.

Twisting his head does not bring any solutions, so Bilbo settles for setting himself on the ground and trying to work out the knots by feel – the rope is coarse and tied in one large knot. Nothing fancy or complicated, and cutting through one strand ought to suffice – but it takes time for his fingers to work both the rope and the knife into position and he grows nervous.

What if anybody comes by? Has the battle concluded? How long until they notice he is missing? If they find him – will they ask questions before striking his head off?

The knife saws through the rope and Bilbo isn’t quick enough to stop it from cutting into his finger. With a low curse he drops it to the ground and pulls his hands before him. His fingers tingle painfully. He shakes his right hand, sucking on the left to stop the bloodflow and slowly climbs to his feet.

All he needs to do is walk up there, pick up the stone and vanish. Then he can finally leave this world behind.

And suddenly a heavy thud shatters the silence of the treasury. Bilbo freezes, heart in his throat. With wide eyes he watches as on the other side of the treasury a figure materializes.

It’s the king. Bilbo gapes, watching as the familiar figure casts a glance back before nimbly scaling the stairs. Silver beads glint in the low light and the dark coat billows behind him, and the words are stuck in Bilbo’s throat.

What is happening, he wonders. Will the Arkenstone help in battle? Why has the king returned for it? Where is his own doppelgänger and where is everyone else? Why this secrecy?

Bilbo’s hand clenches around the ring. He can’t let the stone get away from him now, not when he is so close. His heart skips a beat and he forces himself to move forward, stones crunching under his feet. Thorin has reached the top of the staircase and reaches for the stone.

It falls from its fixture with no sound and Thorin’s fist closes around it.

“Hey!” Bilbo shouts before he can stops himself, “Wait! What are you doing?!”

Thorin whirls around. Instead of anger and indignation Bilbo finds surprise and shock. Familiar blue eyes widen. A frown crosses Thorin’s face, an expression Bilbo doesn’t know how to place. Something is off about him, something feels strange –

Thorin inclines his head. “I mean no harm to you,” he says and sounds so unlike the king that gave orders earlier that Bilbo does a double-take, “This has poisoned your world long enough.”

And with that Thorin reaches for something in his pocket and vanishes.

Bilbo’s mouth drops open. What, why – his thoughts are racing and he makes his way to the stairs, feet tripping over themselves. How is this possible, he thinks, what sort of magic? Where did Thorin go? Is he back in battle, fighting – but why was he talking of this world? Why did he take the stone and vanish?

A cold, dreadful premonition rises in Bilbo’s chest.

He stops cold, staring up at the empty socket that used to hold the stone. The swirling decorative lines so typical of this world linger, their gold untarnished. They had matched the decorations on the king’s cloak. Fur and gold-lined leather. Not like the smooth, dark coat the Thorin that just vanished had been wearing.

Others will be looking for the stones, too, Bilbo remembers.

Ice floods his vein. Could it be that this Thorin just now was another hunter? One of their enemies? He shivers, trying in vain to recall a clue, anything about that Thorin that might have given away his purpose. Of course, his clothing, now that Bilbo thinks about it, stood out. This world’s Thorin had dressed in ostentatious robes, gold woven into his hair. The intruder just now had worn those silver beads that Bilbo remembers from his own world –

How terrifying to think that an agent of the enemy should look like Thorin. How revolting for them to hijack that shape – and Bilbo’s heart twists violently in his chest.

He bites down on his lower lip. Thorin is gone, the stone, too. Outside a fight must rage on, and this worlds’ Thorin and Bilbo must be right in the middle – but he cannot go out there, cannot watch them without feeling his heart break, without having to remember the betrayal of finding the face of a beloved among the enemy.

Of course, he tells himself, with so many different incarnations of the same soul one may be with the enemy. Another agent may wear his own face – this world’s Bilbo certainly was not unkind, but hardened by the desert and the mountains. Really, Bilbo reminds himself, he has no cause to feel betrayed.

Only angry at himself for not realizing earlier something was wrong. For not stepping up to stop the intruder and letting him escape with the stone.

Kelmor will not like it, Bilbo thinks and wearily pulls the ring from his pocket. But there is no putting off the inevitable and he does not want to linger any longer in this dusty and inhospitable world. His body aches and at least back there he will be able to sleep in more comfortable lodgings one night.

So he slips the ring on and watches as the world swirls away with a relieved sigh.

***

“Aren’t you looking chipper,” Ren comments when Bilbo materializes in the room. He takes a deep breath in response, feeling the fatigue hit him and his shoulders slump a bit.

“It was a nightmare,” he mutters in response and Ren raises an eyebrow. “Are you injured?”

His body is a mass of aches and abrasions and Bilbo can feel the cut behind his ear smarting. His shoulder throbs in time with his heartbeat. “Nothing rest won’t cure,” he says.

She nods. “Kelmor is down the corridor. He’ll be waiting for you.”

Bilbo groans silently. He doesn’t want to meet the man now, not when all he wants is his bed and close his eyes and forget about everything. So many fragmented thoughts and impressions are swirling through his mind, and he can barely hold himself together. So instead of answering he merely inclines his head before shuffling through the door and into the corridor.

Maybe he can give Kelmor the slip. Just for now – once he has slept, he may be able to present a sensible narrative of the events in this last world. Now it feels like a big mess, beginning with Labsang’s death and ending with the enemy taking the stone.

Bilbo is half-way to his own rooms, before the soft swish of robes announces the presence of another.

“Bilbo,” he is greeted. Kelmor’s soothing voice now only barely settles his frazzled nerves and Bilbo closes his eyes.

“Apologies,” he replies, “I failed.”

A warm hand covers his shoulder and stops him from walking. “Oh, Bilbo. I am sorry to hear that – would you tell me how it came to pass?”

And even though his own bed is no more than two corridors away, Bilbo finds himself magically nodding and following Kelmor into another, nondescript sitting room. This one is smaller than the others Bilbo has seen, though the armchairs leave nothing to be desired.

“You have been injured,” Kelmor says and steers Bilbo into a chair, “I will send somebody to look after you, later. Do not dismiss your own health over what has occurred.”

“Yes,” Bilbo mumbles.

“Now,” Kelmor sinks into another chair, looking strangely similar to Gandalf for a moment, “Tell me. What happened to have shaken you so?”

“I…” Bilbo takes a deep breath, “Shortly after I arrived, there was an attack. Your agent there – Labsang – was killed and I was taken hostage. For my resemblance to the king’s advisor. Then, through some twists, I came to the capital, where I met both the king and this advisor, though before we could have any longer conversation, the city was attacked.”

Kelmor nods thoughtfully. “The advisor was you, wasn’t he? And the king would have worn the face of your own king.”

Bilbo miserably confirms. “During the attack I managed to sneak away. Managed to find the stone. Which was when the king – at least I thought he was the king at first – showed up. I wondered what he was doing there which was why I didn’t do anything. Only when he had the stone I realized that something was off and called out. But he only told me he meant no harm and vanished.”

Why hadn’t he noticed sooner, Bilbo thinks, shaking his head. Why had it taken him so long to draw the conclusion?

Kelmor sighs. “This is ill news,” he says gravely, “If our enemy is moving so quickly, we must respond.”

Bilbo’s shoulders slump. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“No, don’t be,” Kelmor answers swiftly, “It is ill for us that the stone is gone, but there was no way for you to be prepared. I must admit, I had feared that the enemy may be able to get a hold of one incarnation of souls familiar to us, but I had not thought they had yet succeeded. It is good we now know.”

He inclines his head toward Bilbo. “You need to steel yourself from here on, Bilbo. The face of your Thorin may now not only be worn by a stranger, but by an enemy as well. Do not let yourself be fooled – we cannot let them win.”

Kelmor rises from his chair. “I will warn the others. For now, you go and rest.” He turns to Bilbo with a gentle smile. “Tomorrow there will be a new world. And this time you will not let the enemy make a fool of you.”

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Errr, I have a [tumblr](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/paranoidfridge)?


	9. Desolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo travels onward to a desolate and crumbling world. And finds himself facing an uncomfortable dilemma.

Bilbo sleeps long and without interruption, but does not feel rested when he wakes. A dull throbbing assaults his head the moment he opens his eyes and the dim, artificial light feels suffocating. On the back of his eyelids, the image of Thorin lingers, and it feels like a mirage. Captain Oakenshield smiles fondly at him in his mind, while the King of Gyal Dzong stares at him in open distrust. Another Thorin vanishes before his eyes – and his heart aches at each vision, even though neither of those men is the one he misses.

His Thorin now has become a memory. And Erebor feels farer away than ever before.

For a moment Bilbo wonders if this mission will ever succeed. He does not know how many worlds there are, how many shards of the stone to collect. What use is this quest, if they number uncountable and he will die of old age before he is granted a chance to return to his world? What if he returns only to find his world has moved on without him – that all his friends have passed and he is alone?

With a heavy sigh, Bilbo forces himself to sit up and go through his ablutions. He tells himself to have faith, to wait for that one day when this despair will be a distant memory, when he is back in Erebor at the side of his friends. And yet the glum mood follows him out into the corridor and toward the transportation room.

Ren and Khamûl are there, together with Kelmor.

“Bilbo,” Ren greets and Khamûl inclines his head.

“You look a bit better than last night,” Kelmor comments, “Have you had your injuries treated?”

Bilbo nods silently. He’d stopped with the unspeaking servants – those creatures, he now thinks, are probably not even human – to have his wounds looked at. Their nondescript faces make his hair stand, though their treatment leaves nothing to desire. This morning, his shoulder barely even aches. There is an odd sort of magic to their touch, soulless as it may be.

Kelmor frowns at Bilbo. “I have to admit, I would rather you wait a day before traveling. You have grown pale and thin, my dear hobbit.”

Bilbo shakes his head. “I would rather leave,” he answers, “I will feel better doing something.”

“Maybe the next world will provide an opportunity to rest,” Ren suggests with a small smile, “Or you just let Khamûl figure things out.”

Bilbo glances sharply to the silent fourth in their round, who merely nods. “Yes, well,” Kelmor clears his throat, “After your intelligence, we decided it may be better to not travel alone from now on. The enemy may attempt to make use of any familiar faces on their side, so I believe it may be safer to move in pairs.”

He doesn’t know how to feel about the announcement. Had this been the first time, he would have welcomed somebody at his side. Now the company almost feels like an intrusion.

“I understand,” he tells them.

“Very well,” Kelmor announces, “I wish you the best of luck in that case.”

***

The first thing Bilbo grows aware of is a sharp, acrid smell. A hint of smoke and ash makes him frown as he opens his eyes – he recalls the stench of burnt wood and flesh far too well, and these last terrible moments in Erebor, when everything collapsed around him, are seared onto the back of his eyelids. The warmth he retained from One Ring’s room fades. Here the air is cold and humid, and the silence makes him bite his lower lip.

Next to him, Khamûl eyes the area surrounding them warily. “This place is ill,” he hisses, a shadow passing over his grey face.

Bilbo shudders as a gust of wind tears past them and casts a look at their surroundings. The building they are in is crumbling, the roof almost gone and one wall collapsed. They reveal a dark sky and a vista of lifeless, desolate buildings.

More than sick this place feels as if it is dying, Bilbo thinks. He swallows down the glum premonition and turns to Khamûl to inquire about what their plan is, when a soft knock on the rust-stained door that somehow still is attached echoes.

“Are you there?” somebody whispers,

Khamûl and Bilbo exchange a short look, before Khamûl gives a positive answer. One of his hands is hidden in the folds of his cloak – clutching the hilt of a knife, probably.

The door swings open and a man wrapped in an oversized grey cloak sweeps in, casting a worried frown outside. His features are almost completely obscured, and Bilbo is surprised when he pushes back the hood of his cloak and reveals a surprisingly young face.

“Elmut Dreitman,” the man inclines his head, “And this is Sasketchim. Or was, rather.”

Khamûl inclines his head. “We come from the One Ring. Khamûl is my name.”

“And I’m Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo adds and forces himself to smile. The air is growing colder with each passing moment and something begins to press on his chest.

Elmut studies them both, though his face twists when he looks at Bilbo. “That’s going to be troublesome – you have a doppelgänger,” he says, “But we need to get away from here.”

Bilbo’s heart sinks while Khamûl nods. His face remains expressionless, even as Bilbo adjusts to the idea of having to face another version of himself. With the shambles this world is in, he does not know if he wants to.

“Follow me,” Elmut says and turns. Bilbo and Khamûl follow him down a desolate corridor. Debris lines the floor, the walls are stained. The staircase feels solid enough, but even here time has worn away at the substances.

When they reach the ground level it feels as if the light has further faded. Underneath a dark sky, the crumbled remains of towers and the debris strewn across the ground form an ominous tableau of destruction and death. All colour has been bleached from the world and where he looks, no green remains.

He cannot hear any animals or people either.

“What happened here?” he asks, keeping his voice quiet and catches up with Elmut. Khamûl trails a step behind them.

Elmut’s gaze hardens. “War.”

Bilbo recalls the battle before Erebor. Dead bodies on a blood-stained ground. The smell of copper in the air, before smoke and burning flesh took over. And yet the air had not felt sick like this.

“It must have been terrible,” he says, “It feels as if there’s nothing alive here.”

The corners of Elmut’s mouth twitch. “You are perceptive. Yes, nothing can survive in this world for long. They thought they knew what they were doing.”

Bilbo shudders. “What caused it?”

“A weapon,” Elmut casts a glance at his company, “I don’t know if you understand anything about eco-chemical engineering, but they developed a weapon capable of turning the air itself hostile. They thought they could control it – as you can see, the answer to that is no. After the initial strike they couldn’t contain it, and so it spread and turned the air of this entire world hostile.”

Bilbo shivers. They turn around another corner and behind the ruins of another crumbled building he spies a large tower that looks surprisingly intact.

“That’s the shelter,” Elmut explains, “The last habitable place on this entire planet. Stay outside for too long and you’ll die. But within the air is still normal.”

He turns to Bilbo. “You’ll have to hide your face. The leader’s spouse looks just like you.”

Bilbo nods and reaches for the hood on his own cloak. “The leader,” he finds himself inquiring before he can stop himself, “Who is he?”

“Thor Durinson,” Elmut answers nonplussed though Bilbo notices Khamûl studying him intently, “He was a politician before the war. Has gone a bit mad, since, though he’s made sure the place is well-run and safe.”

Bilbo’s heart clenches. Elmut turns and leads them toward the shelter and all Bilbo can think about is Thorin. There is another Thorin in this world – after his experiences so far Bilbo knows better than to think that the name is chance. And his double in this world – unlucky as he may be for being cast into a dying world – has still wound up in that space next to Thorin.

Those strings ache in Bilbo’s chest. His own friends and his own Thorin – they are far, far away and he still does not know whether he will be able to save them.

As the shadows lengthen and the air begins to make him feel dizzy, he cannot quite disperse the hopelessness that is swirling in his mind. His heart grows heavy and when they stand before the tall entrance gate of the shelter, he stumbles.

Khamûl catches him by the shoulder and Elmut tilts his head. “It’s affecting you already,” he notices with a frown, “It’ll vanish in a few hours. But still – you should try to spend as little time outside as possible. If the short exposure is making you nauseous…”

He breaks off while Bilbo nods heartily in agreement. His head has begun to ache and it feels as if the sickness from the air is spreading through his body.

“What do we need to watch out for?” Khamûl inquires.

Elmut, already working to open the door, doesn’t turn around. “Keep your head down. There are enough people here you see new faces every now and then, but obvious new arrivals would cause an uproar.”

“What of our –“ Khamûl begins, but then the door opens and he falls silent. They step into an enormous empty hall – not beautiful and slightly dusty, but compared to the desolation outside it’s like a breath of fresh air.

“This is the only entrance to the shelter,” Elmut explains, “Everybody who arrives or leaves must go through here. All other exits have long since been closed off.”

He leads them to a smaller door set on the far left of the hall. The corridor behind is narrow and bearing traces of human habitation. The air here feels not as sickening to Bilbo, but his headache has progressed into a fierce pounding. He is glad to keep his head down as they make their way down.

Their guide falls silent and Bilbo catches a few snatches of conversation from others they pass. The clothes and shoes he sees are all worn, most in shades of brown, grey or black. Under his feet, the floor retains the same colors.

He wonders if this world is truly devoid of color. If that war – that weapon – did not only poison the air, but also drew every spark of beauty and life from it.

Elmut settles them into a tiny room deep underground. Bilbo falls asleep quickly, but not fast enough to miss the worried glance Elmut casts into his direction.

“… may make him sick,” Elmut is saying though his voice seems to come from far away.

Bilbo misses Khamûl’s response entirely and darkness is already enveloping him when Elmut’s words reach him. “…could die.”

***

Bilbo doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes. Morning or evening, he learns over the next days, do not matter much in the shelter. Few of those who live here go to the outside – there is nothing there but destruction and dark skies.

From Elmut he learns that since the weapon’s implementation this world has not seen the sun.

Khamûl does set out regularly to explore and search for their objective. The toxic air does not affect him as much, and he is not sad to leave Bilbo behind. Bilbo, on the other hand, tries to convince himself he does actually like his companion. Khamûl, after all, has not said an impolite word to him.

And yet he cannot shake the expression the other One Ring operative rather views him as a burden.

When Khamûl is away, Bilbo sometimes tags after Elmut, who is, he finds, better company. At least he willingly answers Bilbo’s questions and the hobbit begins to learn. This world once was prosperous and green, though tensions had always run high. But they had not expected that one day their world would lie in pieces.

“Now we hold out, mostly waiting for a miracle,” Elmut tells Bilbo one day as he leads Bilbo deep into the shelter, “About everybody involved with the weapon’s construction perished, and those that remain cannot figure out the remaining plans. Still, it’s probably foolish to hope for the sky to clear within the next century.”

He shrugs and waves the hobbit down another rickety staircase. “Or the one after that, who knows. But most of us, we do hope that one day the clouds will part and we’ll catch a glimpse of blue sky once more,” he says, “That is why they didn’t wall up the windows on the topmost floor of the tower. It’s where most people spend their time nowadays when they’re not taking care of their duties.”

Bilbo nods attentively, wondering what a life it must be to wait so desperately for something unlikely to happen. But then, isn’t he doing the same? Isn’t he struggling for something that is out of reach?

“And is there any other way?” Bilbo asks, “Another way to stop that weapon from poisoning the world?”

Elmut shrugs. “If they could replicate the power source of the shelter, perhaps.”

“How does that work?” Bilbo inquires, “Why is the air in here not poisonous?”

“That’s a bit complicated,” Elmut replies, “The source emits waves of a certain length that neutralizes the poisonous elements in the air. Nobody quite knows how the source does that, and nobody has managed to quite recreate the effect.”

Bilbo blinks. “The source is no invention of this world?” A spark of dread blossoms in his stomach.

“Here we are,” Elmut says and points to another set of double doors, “But to answer your question, I don’t know. After the initial panic ceased, we discovered many things that we could and still cannot explain. There is a chance it’s from another world, yes, but not necessarily.”

It’s probably a false trail, Bilbo tells himself. And then looks up when Elmut opens the door and reveals a large room filled with plants. They grow in orderly rows under bright lamps and Bilbo sees immediately how small and fragile they are.

“Our food source,” Elmut comments, “It’s not great, but it produces enough.”

Bilbo swallows. And thinks how terrible it is that those plants struggle to survive just as the humans that depend on them.

***

That evening Bilbo catches his first glimpse of Thor Durinson. Elmut informs them with a frown that the shelter’s leader has called for a general meeting. This, Bilbo and Khamûl, learn means all the inhabitants of the shelter congregate in one gigantic cavern – people spread out over several floors and for the first time he realizes just how many people live in the shelter.

There must be thousands, if not tens of thousands, Bilbo thinks and nervously tugs at the hood shadowing his face. Next to him, Khamûl’s attention is firmly fixed on the central stage. Bilbo has already spotted three familiar figures atop it – a man bearing Dwalin’s features stands at the front edge of the stage, his arms crossed atop his chest. Gloin stands on the other side, and a bit to the back is Bifur.

Bilbo’s heart clenches. The last time he spoke to them – perhaps when he was aboard the ship. Even though those weren’t his friends either.

He misses Erebor terribly then. And feels lost among the masses of strangers in this unfamiliar, desolate world.

The busy chatter echoing off the distant walls dies down as the formidable figure of Thor Durinson enters the central stage. Regardless of his incarnation, whether he is Thor, Thomas or Thorin, his features are recognizable and Bilbo’s heart skips a beat. A second figure follows after Thorin, nearly a head shorter and swallowed by a heavy coat.

But Bilbo recognizes himself easily.

So it is as he suspected, he thinks to himself, in this world there exists the fated connection between the two of them. Though, as he watches – Thorin gesturing grandly, this world’s Bilbo stiff three steps behind him – it does not feel healthy. What made his heart ache with longing initially becomes something that makes him wonder.

The scene playing out on the center stage reminds him of another time. When he himself stood behind Thorin with baited breath while he fought the gold sickness.

This Thorin, too, sounds mad. “Any who oppose this will be quickly dealt with!” he promises, “If we do not all work together and observe our obligations, none will survive. Deviance will not be tolerated, no one is exempt.”

There is a dark gleam to his eyes that sends a shiver down Bilbo’s spine.

“Death will make no exceptions,” Thorin announces darkly, “Nor will I.”

***

What happens next is chance.

With his head still whirling from the encounter and the ominous words, Bilbo excuses himself from Elmut and Khamûl. The latter is planning his next excursion; he has discovered a relatively intact tunnel system in the eastern part of the city and seems to be confident to be able to find a trace leading to the stone there.

In the depth of his heart Bilbo is uncertain whether they will find a stone in this world. Its toxic air gives the impression no object of beauty or color could exist – and how could a world with a shard of the Arkenstone be so desolate? Dying?

His feet carry him downstairs. Few people visit those places except to fulfill their duties. Cleaning, caretaking and small repairs – Bilbo has observed a few attempts by individuals still in possession of hope to reintroduce color. There are corridors with walls painted in greens and blues.

And yet under the artificial light the colors appear pale, wrong.

He wishes he could find just a place where the world’s poison would not follow him. A place to sit and think – the way he used to on the bench before his home in the Shire. Where the wind would caress his face, play with his hair and the sun would warm him.

Those days are so distant he can barely remember them. But it’s not only his memory, Bilbo admits to himself; he has seen the concerned glances Elmut casts his way. It is not chance that Elmut has lead him down to the artificial fields – he knows he has grown pale. Knows the poison of this world is affecting him, even in the safety of the shelter.

He could leave Khamûl behind, Bilbo thinks. The other operative probably would not mind, and Kelmor is likely to understand.

Instead of returning to the plants, Bilbo climbs one level further down. There is nobody here right now, so he can explore the place a bit. Maybe he can find a quiet corner to tuck himself away in and think.

For some more time Bilbo climbs down. The staircase is longer than he expected and when he reaches the bottom, he finds only one large, heavy door before him.

At first it does not budge – instead a screen on its left lights up, asking for a fingerprint. Bilbo blinks, then remembers that the very first world he visited had similar devices. With a small frown he presses his thumb against the screen.

The door opens.

Bilbo blinks. A soft, familiar glow hits his face. And the pieces fall into place.

The door opened because his fingerprints matched those of a very important person in this world. Allowing him entry to a room that few of those in this world have ever seen. The room holding the energy source of the shelter.

Affixed on a platform, nestled among pipes and cables, sits another Arkenstone.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For updates and reblogs of awesome fanart, [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/paranoidfridge).


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